


Forever and Never

by Verde_Dew



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Character Death, Character Development, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Game of Thrones Post Season 7, POV Sandor, POV Sansa, Post-Season/Series 08 Finale, Show Canon with Book References, Slow Burn, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-22
Updated: 2019-03-26
Packaged: 2019-04-06 10:53:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 13
Words: 39,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14055399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verde_Dew/pseuds/Verde_Dew
Summary: Post Season 7.The army of the dead has breached The Wall, Jon is returning to Winterfell with the Dragon Queen and her army at their backs, and Cersei has declared war in the South. With Winterfell caught in the middle, Sansa must take action and seize each opportunity that could help to not only save her people, but herself as well. And with long forgotten memories coming back to haunt her, she's not sure if she's ready to face death just yet.





	1. The Dreamer

**Author's Note:**

> Additional tags will be added as the chapters progress.  
> I haven't written a fanfic in a very long time and the last one I wrote made it to 19 chapters so let's see if I can see this one through til the end with what I have planned. 
> 
> This story will be slow pacing, I realize, but it's key to understand where both characters stand through each experience they've gone through and how they've evolved.  
> I do like how GRRM explained that he has certain tools available to him writing the books where as the the show writers may not, and vice versa.  
> So taking into consideration the mindset of both of them from the books and incorporating those themes on top of what the show characters went through, it still makes sense that it is very feasibly possible we will have our canon Sansan in season 8, regardless of the fact that we cannot read their thoughts and have a hard time incorporating them being a possibility in the end.  
> Also I firmly believe it's true that Sandor takes the place of Lady in terms of connection and warging, without Sansa subconsciously realizing what she's doing. 
> 
> On another note since I'm usually busy I don't always have time to proof read and I don't have a beta so apologies for any errors!
> 
> Also each chapter I usually add a song to help fit the setting as well.  
> Enjoy!
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7hDl6NStW5Q&t=0s

**SANSA POV**

 

Loud screeches echo above, two large masses composed of scales and thick hide circle the snow fallen sky of a cold winter evening. The dragons are the very first welcoming Winterfell receives before the entrance of the party following later behind. The largest dragon, a shade of coal and blazing red eyes,  is the first of the two to land, its massive claws gripping the stone walls that cause craters and deformities to form. These same sturdy walls that have protected the stronghold of Winterfell for decades. The sight of such raw power frighted the folk even more than the former belief that all dragons were extinct.

Stepping back the people began to shuffle and veer out of the way in order to allow the massive dragon to step down from its post and bow its head to the ground, allowing two figures to step down from its back.

The first to find their way through the crowd is a fiery redhead. Sansa had been holding rulership of Winterfell in Jons absence until his expected return. And here he was, riding atop a beast thought to be gone from the world. Not only that, but there were _two_ of them. Though if she wasn’t mistaken and the rumors were true, then where was the third dragon?

Sansa was taken back just from the mere size of them, let alone their teeth. But she held her ground nevertheless and approached both her half brother and the silver beauty that followed, acting strong and fearless, just as a Queen should be. ‘ _As Cersei was_ ,’ she was reminded with distaste.  But her mask did not crack, no matter her thoughts. A mask she knew to wear especially in the presence of new individuals. It was imperative to not allow any chance of vulnerability, thanks to the lessons of Baelish’s years taught through guidance and wisdom. In the game of thrones Sansa was finally a player and no longer just a pawn piece. If they were all going to survive this, she would need to be smart for everyone's sake, not just her own.

If Jon was anything reckless like Robb had been, who was once blinded by love, then this Queen could very well be the death of him yet. The way Jon looked at the woman as he helped lift her down from the dragon's neck said all she needed to know. She had once seen that same look in her own eyes, once upon a time.

He was in love with her.

_The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives_.

Sansa would not let this woman be the death of her brother. Not if she could help it.

Jon’s allegiance should always resign with the Stark family first and foremost. Family would and should always come first.

The most recent letter concerning his return to Winterfell by way of Targaryans ships admittedly set her on edge a little the first time reading it. Sansa was not gullible or stupid. She knew the stories that spoke of the Targaryans and their history, the Mad King; Daenary’s father. She hoped for everyone’s sake the woman was nothing like him. Genetics didn’t always prove you would grown up to be like your parents or your siblings. She knew of one man who was nothing like his family, the thought of him reminding her of past memories, good and bad. He was a man who was nothing like his brother but everything the brute and persona he needed to be in order to survive, even if it wasn’t truly him. But she had come to understand that it was not his fault he turned out the way he did. His attitude and ways were warped in order to survive living in a world where no one is safe.   
He was first person to reveal the man behind the mask to her. He let her see past his walls, building steps for her purposely to climb over and understand him, while still holding his unbecoming persona in her presence.

Perhaps he was truly the first one to teach her of the game of thrones and not Petyr Baelish. The mask began to build itself during Kingslanding through courtesies and manors. It was her only true weapon back then.

But now she had more. And somehow still, even less.

Often times Sansa wondered what had ever become of Sandor Clegane. If he had ever gentled the rage inside of him. She knew him to be dead, however. She had hoped by some answered prayer from the gods that he was still alive somewhere out there, perhaps as a game player just like herself in this impending war to come against the dead. Even if they would never meet again, the thought of the scarred man warmed her heart, regardless of how brutally honest he could be with his sharp tongue that spat hateful words all the same.

And now that it was known that Arya was with him shortly after his depart from Kingslanding, it made her smile. Arya had not been seen for a long time and none of Cersei’s men could find her, but somehow he did. Her sister was in safer hands than Sansa could have ever hoped for. Brienne’s words from the past played back like a recording and did not go unnoticed either.

_‘I saw her, with a man. I don’t think he hurt her. She didn’t want to leave him, he didn’t want to hurt her.’_

_'He never hurt Arya.'_  And in that moment The Hound’s words back then were all but true. He never would have brought harm upon her, just like he hadn’t her sister. If not for him, Arya may have never returned home with the rest of her family in the end. If only he were still alive to properly thank.

Often times Sansa had found herself pulling a hidden cloak from the chest in the corner of the room, the fabric now dyed a former white to a deep forest green, unrecognizable to most as a former Kingsguard cloak. The same one The Hound had thrown over her years ago to cover herself with after Joffrey ordered her to be stripped and beaten in court. And now, it is but a small cherished object from a man she owed so much to, and many words and emotions left unspoken. But Sansa knew all too well, ghosts do not whisper back. The resolution in her heart would die along with him in his grave.

The world is cruel and unfair place indeed.

Jon spoke confidently of the Dragon Queen in his letter and his opinion meant a lot but her subconscious would remind her that not everyone can be trusted completely. Not even Jon. Not yet, anyways. It was safer this way. Years of experience went to show just how many proved that they could not be trusted. She loved Jon, truly, even after all this time apart, he was still her brother, half Stark or not. But with such a long period of separation neither of them were the same children they once were. There was no for sure way of knowing what kind of a man he really shaped out to be in the end. His talk of the army of the dead and the Night King were no lie, that much was clear. And the proof of dragons stood right before her very eyes as well. But that did nothing to speak for his true character except show he was an honest man.

She was no longer a stupid little bird, one who believed in everything and everyone, but now a wolf with claws and teeth.

Through all the scars and suffering, it gave strength. If the same had been spoken for Jon in his experience over The Wall, there was little to doubt he wouldn’t plan his actions accordingly and not side with this woman _because_ she’s a woman. Jon could not afford to fall in love with a girl, not now.

Love was known to be the death of duty. And no more of her siblings were going to die on her watch.

Jon’s leadership had proven true when the lords of the north pledged allegiance to House Stark. There was no reason to doubt he wouldn’t do what he could to help everyone survive. He certainly proved it when he was willing to go to war with Ramsey to take back their home. His kindness never changed, thankfully.

But if he bent the knee just as described in the raven, Sansa grew all the more worrisome.

_‘Everyone is your enemy, everyone is your friend.’_ Baelish’s words replayed in her mind, reminding her not only to stay on guard, but push courtesies and manors as well.

_‘Every possible series of events is happening all at once, live that way and nothing will surprise you. Everything that happens will be something that you’ve seen before.’_ There would _not_ be another red wedding.

The Queen shall have to prove herself, until proven otherwise that she could be trusted. It was taking a gamble, but Jon’s trust meant something. Jumping to conclusions without answers first would not be a wise decision.

“Jon.” Sana spoke aloud, showing confidence in her steps and approach. Cersei had taught her many things, lest she like to admit it, but it was the truth. She may have hated the woman, but for the terrible place that was Kings Landing, she still stood on top. That accounted for something. Wise words that did not go unnoticed. The child Sansa back then was scared of the blonde woman, but as she had grown into an adult, Sansa finally understood her, and why the lioness wore such a thick hide and bore sharp claws to fight. Cersei worked her way up through power, as likely did this woman before her.

She told Sansa once to trust and love no one but your children. Seeing as Sansa had bore none, she could never be understanding of what that real form of love meant. But the way Queen Daenarys looked when sliding her hand across her black stead, eyes glistening with love and affection, Sansa could not help but to understand these dragons were the silver haired woman's children. They were not pets. And the way the dragon rubbed its head to her small frame confirmed it.

But then there was the Sansa worn and torn, beaten and broke, cut and flayed, raped and humiliated. Who had seen that same look she once saw in herself in Jon’s eyes as he approached with the Queen who strode alongside him in unison. It was the look of a love struck man, and it cracked her heart to see, fearing for him that this would just be a phase and once passed and over, it would be too late. It would cloud his vision of what was real and what was a made up fairy tale. Sansa thought she knew love once. What it was like to understand it only for it had to pass into an unattainable reach. There was no such thing as a true happy endings. Just a _livable_ life. 

This silver haired beauty may very well be the death of him lest he fall to prey to it.

  
This Queen before her may be no different from her ancestors, a savage who claimed only fire and blood. Or she may very well be a kind Queen like Margaery Tyrell aspired to be. Yet the woman, false or not, smiled all the same when their eyes met.

“Sansa.” Jon smiled.

Striding towards each other, they pull one another into an embrace. When pulling apart, Jon’s face slowly turns serious. “You look as though you come bearing bad news.” She responded meekly.

Jon had expressed his hardships once before in the past but this was something else she suspected. Something that had not been expressed in the letter by raven. There must be more information still withheld. Jon spoke softly so as not to alert the attention of the men surrounding the courtyard. “Aye. And I’d like to discuss it with you as soon as possible. Our company is not far behind and should arrive any time now.”

Sansa furrowed her brows in question. “You mean the Dorthraki and the Unsullied? How many are there exactly?” ‘ _And what about the cost of food to feed them all?’_ Was she the only one calculating how they were going to survive this war? The numbers were needed but the resources did not come as easy. Unless there were more guaranteed alliances to provide food, there was no telling how much longer they all may survive the winter. They’d have to turn south if the starvation and cold didn’t kill them first. And if not then the knight king surely would ensure their death, should he make it this far. _If_ he makes it this far. With the wall still intact there was a strong chance the armies could still ride North and fight the dead off before they made it to the walls of Winterfell.

“Not all of them came, but at least half her army. The rest remain on standby should an attack rise from the South. The Brothers without Banners will be joining us as well. They follow our cause. I plan to make the announcements over dinner this evening to our Lords and Ladies as well as the rest of our party and answer to their concerns and questions. But first, I hope we can talk between us. When we sort things out then we will make the announcements and answer the questions and concerns they may have.” Jon stated. Almost forgetting his introductions, he turns to the woman standing beside him and makes up for a formal introduction. “Sansa, this is Queen Daenarys. She is going to help us fight the dead.”

Daenerys approached Sansa, looking her up and down in wonder and delight. “Such beauty. It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Sansa.”

“The pleasure is mine, your grace. My brother spoke highly of you in his letters. He had also warned me of your dragons and yet I still cannot believe my eyes. They are magnificent creatures.” The smile drawn thankfully was not forced. They _were_ beautiful creatures, no matter how frightening.

They both drew their eyes to the sky where Drogo had flown off to meet his brother Rhaegal. Daenarys grin widened looking upon the beast then drew her gaze back to the red head and smiled sincerely. “Yes, they have grown quite fast. But then children always grow up fast, don’t they?”

The look in her eyes reminded Sansa of her late mother Catelyn Stark. It made her both happy and sad all the same. Catelyn would have done anything to get her children back. So would her father, admitting he was a traitor in the end for his family's sake, even if it was a lie. There children meant more to them than anything, even their pride.   

Sansa had no children of her own to understand, maybe even too frightened to bear any after the mental image of bringing another Ramsey into world. After everything he had done to her, she couldn’t imagine she’d ever love the child, no matter how hard she may try. And even if she had been married off to some Lord eventually to form an alliance, her body was no longer be desirable. The bruises, cuts and scars would never appeal to a highborn mans taste. No, children were not likely to ever be a possibility.

“I suppose you are right.” Sansa agreed nonetheless. Life had proven it true, after all. With so much time that had passed, she and the rest of her siblings were forced to grow up before they were ready, and look where they ended up now. Both parents and Robb and Rickon gone. The Stark family was less, but it was not no more.  
The pack will survive, at any cost necessary.

Remembering her courtesies, Sansa smiled sweetly and stepped back holding out her arm in gesture. “Well then, shall we?” If her brother had already bent the knee, she had no choice but to play along and play her cards accordingly, acting as though she too pledged allegiance by default. “I’m sure Arya will be thrilled to see you once I send a maid to fetch her from her room. I will send for Bran as well.”

The worry and dread from Jon’s face changed instantly into the brightest smile of shock seen since they were children, back when Jon for the first time was allowed to join  his first hunt alongside Robb and Father. He had never been more excited. The closest he had come to that smile was time spent with Arya.

Arya was always his favorite, that much was obvious. They had the strongest bond between all of the Stark siblings. Even if Sansa and Jon never had that kind of relationship it was enough to fill the empty hole in Sansa, knowing that someone else was still capable of finding real happiness even through the storm.  

She may never fill the void in her own heart but that did not mean she could not be happy for others happiness. It kept her going, taking care of others even at her own expense, and smiles were such a foreign thing in this time of war, especially for Sansa. Every smile she saw on another helped to remind her she was not in Kings Landing, nor in the vale. And she was certainly not in the hands of the Boltons any longer either. This was home, with her real family. There was no reason not to be happy at the reunion.

The footing in his Jon’s step sped up anxiously, a wide grin plastered on his face as he took the lead and pushed ahead, guiding them further into the stronghold of their home. The Starks were all home once again.


	2. A Mark On My Soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post Season 7.
> 
> The army of the dead has breached The Wall, Jon is returning to Winterfell with the Dragon Queen and her army at their backs, and Cersei has declared war in the South. With Winterfell caught in the middle, Sansa must take action and seize each opportunity that could help to not only save her people, but herself as well. And with long forgotten memories coming back to haunt her, she's not sure if she's ready to face death just yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had little to no sleep in the past week and running off fumes. But I somehow managed to knock out a new chapter so there's that. Posts may be slow since I'm working on my own novel as well but I'll try to update as often as I can, I just can't promise weekly posts.
> 
> Anywho, leading up even to the end of Season 7 I realized neither of them were mentioned to each other since their separation. So I figure they probably assume the other is dead and it was made intentional in order to make up for an interesting reunion. ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
> 
> And with Sandor being trapped within his own mind in a gray zone when it comes to Sansa, I felt like this song was a good fit.  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QNb21QVCvMI

**SANDOR POV**

 

The ship ride to Winterfell was one of absolute discomfort and lacking when it pertained to personal space. Inside and outside it was always cold, more so especially now that winter was here. There was scarcely any space to walk around and the space that was made available on deck would just find one way or another to freeze your balls off. On top of that there was no real source of heat beyond the comfort of fur blankets and even then they were limited thanks to the numbers of men the ships carried.

 

Now that the party traveled for a good amount of time on dry land and was approaching Winterfell on horseback, Sandor found his thoughts slipping towards unwelcome thoughts while trying to keep out of ongoing conversations around him. The memories that spurred were of little wolf children running about the large fortress, happy with life, themselves, each other. All the Stark children smiled once then. All before everything went to shit. And now only two were left and neither Arya nor Jon would likely be smiling with the well known threatening fate of the dead that marched on The Wall. There no longer were any happy wolves to be found, least not in Jon Snow. The man was as unhappy as any soldier in this miserable lot awaiting their impending death.

 

Perhaps it would only be a fitting means to an end for him. Sandor’s life had only really just begun years ago after his first trek North with King Robert and company. If he died protecting Winterfell alongside the Stark family, it may serve as a way to relieve the burdens of his sins and regrets. A one attempt to fight for the little bird, even if it wasn’t her this time he was protecting, but the love she bore for her family and need to see them alive. He would be sure to keep them alive, if only in her memory.

 

He knew well this time the red head would not be there at Winterfell. With that genuine honest smile of hers, filled with happiness from back when she was still a child. A child unbeknownst to the horrors that awaited House Stark. The last ever seen of that same smile must have been years back in King’s Landing during the tourney. When she stood to her feet alongside the crowd in praise and watched in bewilderment like the others at his quick wit and brash decision to take action in order to stop Gregor. He was no knight, saving the Tyrell. But in her eyes perhaps in that moment, he may have been. And maybe that was just enough.

 

Beyond the wall Jon scarcely opened up to anyone in the party and said little to anything about himself, instead giving hs usual orders as acting leader. Aside from that the man hardly spoke to anyone aside from the Wilding, a man whose red hair stood as a constant reminder to Sandor of what he left behind for the lions.

 

For years the thought dawned that both girls were dead, had it not been for Brienne of Tarth informing him of Arya’s status back home at Winterfell, alive and strong. That had to be one of the proudest moments of his meager life, surely. Knowing the little wolf bitch made it back in the end. No doubt she was a killing machine by now, the eagerness to see her again warming his heart.

 

Sandor had wondered if Jon knew the status of any of his siblings at all after the great amount of time spent on the wall. It was possible the man may have known Arya was alive, choosing to keep it a secret. If he had known and kept the information withdrawn for a reason it likely was in order to protect her from anyone else trying to take over Winterfell. Some of these men were strangers who had never met before. Ones who may or may not be trustworthy. And trust was something the Starks lived by he knew, after having spent so much time around them. The Greyjoys betrayal against Rob Stark, killing his younger brothers and taking over the lands, was a betrayal known even to King’s Landing. That same day a delighted Joffrey walked about the castle with a bigger pep to his step, amping  his usual routine of torment and punishment onto others through his own twisted form of what he would call enjoyment. Jon must have known about the deaths of his three brothers if even Joffrey knew. Had the man even heard any news his sisters?

 

And the Little Bird...

 

It was not a conversation Sandor wished to broach and an answer that was better to not be known. If she was dead…

 

In the Dragon Pit there was no sight of her. If Joffrey was dead, no sign of Tommen, and Cersei serving as Queen said anything about the situation, it was possible she had Gregor…

 

Sandor’s forgotten craving for wine began to emerge again, wishing for nothing more right now than to be drunk in his cups enough to sleep in order to escape these overbearing delusions. And even then in restless dreams, he wasn’t safe. The nightmares had begun to get worse. Often times he’d have fragments of what he thought were vivid visions coming to life, showing him the terrible things that could or may have already happened to the girl. Many times he’d heard her crying in his head. From memories or his brain trying to torment him, he couldn’t say. But each occurring night the haunting scenes came to him, each night he would startle awake in heavy sweat and an empty pit in his gut. And the constant reminder of where he was.

 

Back when he was helping build the sept he had found a small bit of peace, managing to slowly kill off what was left of the persona of The Hound once and for all. But the dog was slowly coming back and so to the self hate for himself and others.

 

The time spent there helped whether he wished to admit it or not. It had gentled the rage but left a bitter feeling of hollowness and loss.

 

Even the wilding pointed it out. _‘You have sad eyes.’_

 

As if the escalating irritation just from listening to Tormund’s bragging about Wilding ways compared to Southerners wasn’t enough, the fucker had to go and point out the features of his face. _Twice_ . Had the Hound completely made a comeback Sandor may have decided to break the man's jaw, for not only pointing it his eyes, but the comment towards his face about his being kissed by fire. He knew it was a tease, _a joke._ But the intentions Sandor gathered behind the words were not at all the same interpretations as the gingers.

 

It was tormenting not being able to escape the personal hell of thoughts and feelings that trapped themselves so deep that when any inclination or mention about its existence was brought up it was enough to make the large man snap. Once a long time ago the only dreams and motive Sandor had was killing his brother. A life built on revenge and hate. But then it became more than that. And that’s when the real hate brewed. A taunting of former wishes and wants surfacing and presenting itself right before his steel colored eyes and loveless heart.

 

The Stark girl had created nothing but self-hate, lust and confusion. And each regret stung more than a sword pierced to through the belly, each one plaguing his mind over and over with nightmares many a moon, with what ifs and what could or should have been said and done. Each encounter left him feeling bitter and angry. It was easier to hate himself than hate her. But even then, he found a way to blame the girl regardless for both their problems. Because hate was easier to accept than love. And thus, he begun to hate gingers.

 

Once upon a time long ago a younger self of Sandor had those same stupid little dreams in the books, becoming the brave knight and saving the maiden, replicating the songs of strong courageous warriors who did what was best for himself and others. Those visions had since burnt to ash the moment skin met hearth.

No songs would ever be sung for a man like Sandor Clegane. _Especially_ not The Hound.

 

With dreams and desires beaten down like a dead horse, moving forward was all that could be done. It would have to be enough.

 

At the front of the army that traveled North rode Ser Davos, Tyrion Lannister, Jorah Mormont, Brienne of Tarth, The Brothers Without Banners, a third of the Unsullied army, and the Dothraki just behind them. Sandor himself strode close behind Tyrion, whose saddle was built to accommodate the dwarfs size. The little man spoke of his dire need of wine upon arrival and a bed that didn’t rock when sleeping. A notion everyone could agree on.

 

“Perhaps Joffreys fate was sealed all along, though I doubt it was by her hands. Then again who’s to be sure who really killed my _beloved_ nephew. Poisoned, the boy was, though you probably already knew that. Of course, Cersei would blame me first. The vile woman...Truly, she is.” Tyrion looked to Ser Davos who nodded in agreement. The Imp was rather talkative ever since they made it to land, ceasing to talk ever since exiting the ship. Now, he dragged on about his viewpoints and opinions on others and whatever else came to mind. “They say poison is a woman's weapon. And my sister, well, the Battle of the Black Water and this scar was not proof enough to convince her otherwise. She believes I cannot fight, so why not it be me? And now she plans to have all our heads thanks to our beloved King Snow, lest they are still on our shoulders before the Night King and his army are through with us. I can’t imagine turning to Winterfell and finding another woman that would just as easily behead me, even if it was a forced marriage. Granted, that was my father’s doing. Nevertheless I can only hope she is doing well now that she has escaped not only King’s Landing but the Boltons as well.”

 

Sandor listened to the conversation but had no means of partaking. News of the South had been scarce in his travels through the River Run. Knowledge of a woman forcefully married to the Imp would be the only thing that made sense anyhow. He couldn’t imagine any woman wanting to willingly marry the tiny man, with his sharp tongue and reputation for whoring and drinking. Not to mention what happened to the last wife. But hearing the stories of others at this point were as good as any distraction from the dark thoughts that began plaguing the brutes mind.

 

“You’re fortunate to have escaped that marriage then. Last I heard she fed her last husband Ramsey Bolton to his own dogs.” Davos informed, half in disbelief and the other in pride. “Can’t say the same for your nephew if it was her doing, but either way, I pity the next man who dare lay a finger on Lady Sansa again.”

 

Sandors ears began to ring at the mention of that one single name, or perhaps it was the loud beating of his heart at its quickening pace from putting all the information together. She was alive, at Winterfell. She was forced into a marriage with the Imp and after was married to a Bolton, the same men who flayed their victims. Married off to the worst possible people on this planet like some cattle. The hatred for the Lannister cunts rose even higher.

 

The Hound was finding its way back, blood boiling in fear, anticipation, and anger all at once. The nightmares crawled from its darkened pits and slithered into reality behind closed eyes. And now, with eyes wide opened, Sandor wasn’t prepared to face the truth, let alone her.

 

The doubt and self-hate came back to resurface, worry of their unavoidable meeting taking a turn for the worst after their last encounter ended. Not that he truly wanted to avoid her. Far from it. But his demons crept back up to haunt him, reminding him of all his insecurities and flaws. A part of him began to hope she would avoid him if they did draw eyes. A former Lannister dog was not worth the time of day in the highborn lady’s presence. A tainted old dog would only track mud on its master if let inside.

 

The knowledge that she grew to finally become a wolf with fangs and bite was both exciting and disturbing. Despite the Imps comments and his distaste for the little monster, the news brought some resolution to the still mad dog that lived within. The Hound had not been completely put to rest, all emotions striking him at once.

 

Years had passed with much time to dwell on reflection, forgiving and understanding, but never upon approaching, facing, or _admitting_ . What could he say to her, if she’d even allow him to? Apologize for his behavior back then? For sneaking into a fourteen year old girls room covered in blood, vomit, and smelling of sour red, coming to her that night in hopes of saving her like some damn bloody knight she wanted so much? Or for his darker intentions, slipping into a deep slumber on her bed and hopes of her comforting _him_ in his own fear. A bloody grown man, seeking out comfort in the arms of a girl not yet a woman. A girl who was betrothed to another man and far outranked the status of a King’s Dog.

 

Goading for a mercy kill from the little wolf bitch wasn’t enough to quelch the demons that tormented the deep seated desires towards her older sister, after admitting such wicked thoughts. Left there to die on a hill, and still somehow the chirping in the man's mind would not stop.

 

Not even Gregor was wasted on last final words.

 

The night lit in flames helped in realizing what meant the most to him. The only person to ever treat him like an actual person and he still played the role of the dog towards her, stuck in his mask and threatening words. Only his actions could speak louder than words. Words he could not speak in the presence of the snake pit known as King’s Landing. And, for fear of accepting what he already knew.

A dog, in heat with his blood up and adrenaline pumping hard. Fear of the flames that could take him or _someone._  

His drunken stupor had conquered all desires, urging him to take her that night. Thankfully, Sandor had conquered the lust driven Hound and managed to keep a composure long enough to give her a choice of freedom, a way out of the lions den. But the little bird chose to remain in her cage…Perhaps because she too feared him.

 

And that’s what hurt the most.

 

How could she possibly look at him the same way if they came face to face again? She ought to be sickened by his presence, just like anyone else that came across the grueling personality and face of a half burnt man.

 

Sandor hated himself for everything that he was. A dog, a liar, all his foul mouthed words, and overall, the loyalty forged to the Stark girl and rejection of her King. The little bird had ruined him further than he already was. Made him dream of things he knew were not possible in this world. To see that there was still good in people, that not everyone glued their fake masks to their face.

 

And his endgame to return Arya back to her family to redeem himself in Sansa’s eyes, to show that he could help her in other ways, had backfired as well. With most the Starks all killed, Sandor took it upon himself to at least keep the She-Wolf safe. A chance of redemption, maybe even by the Gods or some higher power.

 

Drawn out of his thoughts, the party finally approached the massive threshold that was known as Winterfell. Before, the northern home littered the land with life and laughter. Now, it was covered in thickets of snow with only a cold chill and silence. The wolves den.

 

Growling beneath his breath, Sandor locked his eyes forward, fixated in a type of trans along the hard stone walls of Winterfell. “You needn’t worry about that. I’ll make sure that never happens again.”

 

Tyrion gave him a queer look, then back to Davos in question, only to shut his mouth as the gates swung open in welcome to their arrival.

 

From inside, Ghost howled loudly, alerting the party of the presence of a direwolf. Some men startled at the sound in astonishment while others watched in fixation of the dragons flying overhead.

  
In those moments, Sandors heart howled back in response. _‘I’m coming, little wolf.’_


	3. The Chosen Pessmist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post Season 7.
> 
> The army of the dead has breached The Wall, Jon is returning to Winterfell with the Dragon Queen and her army at their backs, and Cersei has declared war in the South. With Winterfell caught in the middle, Sansa must take action and seize each opportunity that could help to not only save her people, but herself as well. And with long forgotten memories coming back to haunt her, she's not sure if she's ready to face death just yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually surprisingly enjoy writing in Sansa's POV so I hope my interpretation of her is fitting enough for you readers. I suppose my variation is a bit different but I hope it makes sense where I plan to lead these characters.
> 
> Song chapter:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wye6CygA0Lc

**SANSA POV**

  
“Expecting?” Sansa felt the words escape her lips in a harsher tone than intended before pondering a more appropriate response. The news was shocking to say the least among all else that had been discussed within the long hours locked away within the solar. They had just learned of Jon’s Targaryen heritage thanks to the sight of Bran, leading this news to complicate things even further. “When did you learn of this? Are you for certain?” With Jon’s absence being away for months, first over the wall and then South to Kings Landing, it was possible it had happened any time between.

“We have yet to speak with the Maester, but I’m sure.” The look in Daenary’s eyes spoke of sadness and longing, a past she once had put behind only to resurface through memories. “I was pregnant, once. The symptoms are the same and have not changed since. There is no doubt.” The mood changed then to something dark, thoughts once repressed festering and bubbling behind the recess of the mind. Her fingers tap the polished wood of the armrest in questioning then and what looked to be a face of disbelief. “I thought surely, I would never be able to have children again. But it seems I have been proven wrong.”

“A gift from the Gods, perhaps.” Sansa offered for solace.

“Perhaps.” Dany interjected. “Or it is a curse. The Witch who murdered my husband told me I would never be able to have children. Yet here my belly grows with child. I cannot help but to fret that there may be reason to believe this babe may not make it alive through the winter.”

 _‘Or I.’_ Sansa finishes for Daenerys within the confines and security of her own mind, speaking the words the dragon queen dared not say in front of company, perhaps for upholding propriety or so as not to upset the partner that sits across the large opal shaped chestnut table from her.

  
Jon is quick to throw in his two cents, displeased with where the atmosphere is leading before she can add any further to the doubt that lingers in the air unspoken. “A child is not a curse. It is a blessing.” His eyes are pleading for her to reconsider her disposition. To see a brighter side to things than the darkness that hangs over each and every shoulder. “We can’t afford to believe in everything we’re told anymore. We will fight off each enemy and come out alive in the end. There is no reason to start signing our deaths away already.”

Daenary’s sighs in agreement. “Mayhaps you’re right, but there are wars coming from both the North and the South and winter is upon us already. We cannot lose direction of where our attentions should truly lay. To extend the Targaryen line is important, but not if we’re all dead first.”

The silvered beauty spoke with such truth and poise, Sansa couldn’t help but admire her leadership and conveyance. The woman had faced her own struggles and came back stronger in the end for it. Forced into a fate built from a harsh and cruel world in which only the strong survive. _‘Not just the strong, but the smart as well.’_

Daenary’s was proving herself a formidable tactician when it came to discussing the plan of action earlier. Most females had no military prowess or understanding of war, that aspect left to their husbands. When the decision was made that she fend off Winterfell from the North with her largest dragon, Drogon, while Jon took Rhaegal to fly South to push back the forces advancing from King’s Landing, Sansa had come to an agreement with the Queen that that was the best plan of action for defense. Splitting up the forces could very well lead to chaos if the numbers were too high to fend off, but Winterfell could not afford to leave any sides of its walls vulnerable. Not when there was nowhere else left to go.

Evacuating South in means of escape from the dead meant there needed to be a clearing in the path to safety. If the Lannister army had decided to march South and were currently on their way to Winterfell, there would be fewer options for the folk people to make it out alive. Jon was to take the remaining army posted at Dragonstone to march back South in hopes of overthrowing Queen Cersei. Unless she had a change of heart and decided to work alongside them against the dead. Chances of that were extraordinarily low.

The air remained still and somber, until Sansa decided to speak up. “There is one last thing, before we bring this meeting to an end.” The options weighed heavily of how to to broach the subject, but now was a good as time as ever. With risk, she decided to snag the opportunity before it slipped. “Little Finger is dead.”

Jon all but stood from his seat in shock. The last he had seen of the man he recalled leaving Baelish with a threat after throwing him up against the walls within Winterfells crypts. A threat Jon would have made good word on had it come to pass. “What is the meaning of this?”

“I killed him.” Arya, who had remained silent as a snake in the corner of the room until now finally spoke, taking steps forward in a swaying motion of satisfaction with folded hands held behind her back. “On the lady’s orders, of course.” Smiling to her older sister, a look was then cast between the two that indicated that there would never be a betrayal to one another, Sansa then turning to Jon with a look of absolute. “He betrayed our family and the reason father is dead. My actions are justified, if only you’d let me explain.”

The look in Jon’s eyes spoke of disbelief but faded as soon as Bran spoke, the boys eyes still cast in fixation of the embers that danced along the stone walls of the hearth. “They speak the truth.”

“Even if it is the truth, did you not think to console me first before taking action? What am I to make of this, Sansa? And you know as well I do from father that the one who passes the sentence should swing the sword. How do you expect to take responsibility for this? You went behind my back.” It was cruel to bring up the morals of Eddard Stark, but the intent behind each word was justified on Jon’s behalf. Their father was relentless when it came to lessons and teachings. Knowledge and practices that were embedded into each Stark child at an early age.  

 

A soft rasp then came to the door, alluding everyone the presence of the chubby man that slowly enters. Sam gives a half bow in apologies, all eyes fallen on him, nearly fumbling with his words in embarrassment after walking in on what looked to be a tense subject amongst the figures. “Sorry to interrupt. The rest of the party has arrived. I thought I should let you know.”

“Thank you, Sam.” Jon sighs and rubs his forehead trying to get a grasp of the situation. Finally deciding, he looks to Daenary’s, half smiles in apology, then starts to walk towards the front door excusing himself. “We will make sure they are accommodated with rooms fit to their comfort. Is super almost ready? The men will be hungry after their travels.”

The pudgy man nods. Not but an hour ago Sam had left to check on preparations as instructed. However, he had not been around when the topic of his name had been brought to attention. Jon places a hand on the maesters shoulder, guiding him as they exit the solar, a cheerier tone lightening the mood to his unnerved voice. “I suppose it is a best time now as any to inform you that you will be accompanying me to King’s Landing.”

With Jon gone and nothing else left to say, Sansa decides to take her leave and makes way for her quarters before expecting to look presentable in the great hall with the other lords and ladies. With the most important matters discussed and cleared in the air, Sansa began feeling torn between perplexity and anxiety. It seemed no matter what had been done Jon had questioned whose side she was on, no matter if the words escaped his lips or not. The answer was written all over his face. Eyes reflecting betrayal.

 _‘And yet you betrayed us by withholding information about you and your Queen. Who can truly say one is better than the other?’_ The thought, though cynical, bore down like a leech, leaving a bloody wound once ripped away. There was no spitefulness towards the woman herself, merely at her brothers lack to inform of important details. Trust was the foundation of any successful relationship, family or not. If she and Jon could not be open and trust one another with their choices, it could weave to a potential divide for the North.

There would be none of that.

With her mind made up, Sansa decided to give him the full truth once there was another affordable moment alone to speak. Rumors spread like wildfire even in the northern parts and for the King to hear something and misunderstand or interpret information incorrectly would just not do. Jon deserved the truth from her mouth, not the fed horses with their lowered heads in obedience and eyes wrought with scrutiny the moment its master turns a blind eye. Soldiers were good for war, but terrible for truth. _‘A world built on liars.’_

Roused from her own thoughts, sounds from the bailey can be heard, the loud commotion of bustling people making their way into the settlement. The howling of Ghost is the first sound to pull her from the distraction of the many men flooding inside past the gate. For a moment her heart leaps, believing for just the briefest of moments that it is Lady calling to her, causing her heart to soar only to halt a moment later the moment reality sinks in. Lady has been dead for years and is never coming back.

Walking along the rampart, Sansa does not take much care to give special attention to detail at all the men being round up inside, only glimpsing at the hoard to gather an appropriate estimate of the many mouths they will be expected to feed. Mulling over her people was a responsibility that was left to the lady of the house, she came to understand. Jon had too much on his plate and could not afford the leisure of sympathy for others when there were more important matters at forefront. It was tiring and stressful to take on the responsibility, but it had to be done.  

By the time everything had been finished, a clean bath, a fresh pair of clothes put on and her hair tied back in a northern style braid, Sansa pulled her black cloak over her shoulders and made her way to the dining hall. Upon arrival, Daenarys was the first one she spotted, being given a chair on her own beside Jon on the opposite side. The woman smiled kindly at Sansa’s approach while her counterpart payed his sister no mind, a gaze locked on the commotion in front of him as men and woman both filled into the room taking seats.

Sansa’s dress she wore was dull and was of less extravagance when compared to the dragon queens. The fabric was embroidered in hues of black and gray, thick fur woven into the lining and seams that followed the shoulders down to the collars of each wrist. A long sash hung low from one shoulder and met the end of the opposite waist, the leather imprinted with a direwolf sigil, bold and noticeable. Easing her way past to the opposite end of the table, the redhead seats herself beside Arya, still close enough to the center of the long rectangular mahogany enabling her to stand as equal to her half brother. The man may have lost some of his reserve but at least he was aware that this queen of his did not speak for House Stark.

At the sight of wine placed in front of her, Sansa is quick to drown out what she could from the bustling sounds of laughter, fighting, and whatever else men boasted about these days with their long talks over alcohol and a meal. Things weren’t all bad, they could be worse, she knew. But no matter the reunion of the Stark family or the reclaiming of Winterfell was enough to cleanse the demons that haunted through dreams in hushed whispers of monsters passed gone. The qualms within would not subside no matter where her mind turned to in hopes of happy memories that may serve to drown out the sorrow and misery of past mistakes, of proper choices that should have been made if only she hadn’t been a stupid little bird, with stupid little dreams.

Transfixed by the liquid stirring within the cup, Sansa almost hadn’t noticed her sister speaking to her until the words already passed. Arya’s face beamed with amusement seeing how lost in thought Sansa was. About to snap at her sisters transgression in mockery, Sansa stops, not understanding her sisters words until Arya repeats them for a second time.

“ _I said_ , it looks to me that there’s a dog who wishes you would throw him a bone.” Arya chuckles, but the obscure notion passes right over Sansa’s head and leaves her to ponder what the younger girl could possibly mean by the statement. It is then that Arya notions her head into the crowd in front of them, scanning her eyes out among them. When her eyes finally fall on the object of the young wolf’s interest, Sansa exhales a breath she didn’t realize she was holding in, her mouth gaped open in shock and what could be described as disbelief. There, sitting among the men closer towards the back of the hall, sat a tall man with scars running along the side of his burned cheek, his steel eyes boring back into her own Tully blue. He is much different from the man she recalled many years ago back in Kings Landing.  His hair is a bit longer, and cleaner, and his beard has grown thicker. The way he presents himself isn’t in a setting of a self-induced drunken pit, rather he sits with unease, perhaps for the same reason as she.

Sansa reflects aloud, believing that her eyes are deceiving and this is just a cruel joke played upon by her Arya following her games of the faceless men. “The Hound is dead.” The words waver from her lips with more vulnerability than she’d wish to let on, but it is too late to take them back now after they have been spoken. If this were truly real and not just a mere facade or dream, Sansa was not sure what to think.

“It would seem not.” The young assassin responds. 

Brienne then enters the room, an appreciative distraction watching the large woman make her way towards their table and presenting herself just before Sansa’s line of sight, tearing away any vision of the folk in front of her. Taking one more glance to the contents of her cup, Sansa downs the last of her drink before finally locking eyes with the blond knight. The sworn shields return safe and sound was uplifting to the already decreasing easiness, allowing for a small window of opportunity to break way for other matters that didn’t involve a dark brooding man that once haunted her dreams. “Brienne,” She greeted with a forced fake smile. It was not the woman's fault for her troubles, and she hoped she would understand if she somehow managed to see through it. After all, Sansa had been known to be a terrible liar, but she was learning all the same. “I am glad to see you returned back home safely. I have missed your absence by my side.” It wasn’t a lie, but the business she felt presented itself against her better judgement and pushed itself through the mask.

Brienne sensed this, asking the question that was expected to show all in a matter of time. “I am glad to be back, my lady. But forgive me for saying, you look ill. Shall I escort you back to your quarters?”

Even the courtesies and manors would not do it seemed. Sansa attempted to hide through the well built mask but it was all for not. Brienne suspected the expression was a farce, and ever the truth seeker, decided to call it out for what it was. “I suspect there is something more, isn’t there?”

Instead of responding right away, the lady of the house stands, turning to her siblings on one side and then Jon and Dany on the other. “Forgive me, but I’m afraid I must excuse myself. I do not feel so well and would wish to have my food brought to my chambers. If you’ll excuse me.” Veering around the corner of the table and making her way to the exit of the dining hall, Brienne follows in tow only to come to a halt once stopped. “Thank you Brienne, but I should find some peace alone, if I may. Please enjoy the night off to rest, I will be sure to see myself out.”

 

The night is cold and the air nips at her ears and cheeks in chills. The rest of Winterfell is quiet and abandoned at this hour, everyone else gathered in the great hall and few men walk among the courtyard. The dragons in the sky have since silenced and no sound of Ghost has erupted ever since reuniting to its master side. Ascending up the stairs to her quarters in hopes of some peace and quiet, the tears that had pushed themselves back had barely begun to surface once she reached the final steps to the flat walkway, only to abruptly stop before running into a large mass that blocked the pathway. Stalking forward, the tall figure is quick to corner her against the wall, one arm plastered to the cold stone beside her head. The realization sets in of just who this man is that came to the lady of Winterfell’s quarters in the dark of night. There was only one who ever had. A man with a thick voice that curled like smoke, a musk of oiled steel, sandalwood, and a signature scent that even Sansa couldn’t quite place but always delighted in nevertheless.

She felt her heart stop in that moment.

“Look who's come out to play…”


	4. Sleeping With Ghosts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post Season 7.
> 
> The army of the dead has breached The Wall, Jon is returning to Winterfell with the Dragon Queen and her army at their backs, and Cersei has declared war in the South. With Winterfell caught in the middle, Sansa must take action and seize each opportunity that could help to not only save her people, but herself as well. And with long forgotten memories coming back to haunt her, she's not sure if she's ready to face death just yet.

“You think the King wants his prize out wandering alone?”

 

For the life of her, Sansa could not think of what to say to him, words all but failing her. His eyes were since the only thing that were ever frightening. They showed the true man underneath, the one that suffered in silence, a frightened and confused human that had no proper outlet for every conflicting emotion he felt or decision he made. Sansa finally understood that each harsh or crude comment was spoken with absolute truth and never once in deception before her. Eyes filled with honesty yet stricken with obscurity at the truth behind any given lie in the presence of others, but never to her. Towards her, there was never once a lie. Back then it was truly frightening being unable to understand his motives and perhaps even still she didn’t, for what reason could he have to request escaping into the night while her betrothed fought the battlements against Stannis Baratheon’s fleet? Turning tail and running from the fire, abandoning all, _except_  her. What was her life worth compared to his if not the mere matter that there was the possibility of being caught, should the battle end in defeat or victory.

 

Because deep down Sandor Clegane was a good person. No, not a knight from the stories, but a savior to her and others all the same. And he was alive here in the flesh and not some figment of the woman’s imagination. But now that he stood before her again after all these years, words all but escaped her thoughts in one massive jumble leading to further confusion and distress, desperately needing to escape somehow so as to regain her wits. This was all too soon, too sudden, and like a frightened dog with its tails between its leg, all Sansa wanted to do in these moments was _run._

 

“I’m going back to my chambers, sir.” The voice came out near broken, just the same as the old frightened child once trapped in the lion’s den. It wavered with unavoidable tremble, eyes wandering anywhere but his own - to the floor, to the wall, anywhere she could think of except to him. It was not the severe burns that made the girl falterer nor his unreadable eyes thrilling like a wild beast who’d caught its prey. It was the subconscious fear of posttraumatic stress from being cornered against her own will, just as Ramsey had done many times over, coming to their room at night to take what was his - by force if needed.

 

But this was not Ramsey. As intimidating and scary as this man made himself out to be among others, he was all bark and no bite, least not without orders. Once a trained dog and now a stray, somehow finding its way into the den of wolves. Had the man swore fealty to Jon? Or found his way across the narrow sea, selling his sword to Queen Daenerys? The idea of him taking vows were an unlikely notion, but a possibility all the same. Whatever fate that had brought the man here to Winterfell could not be for certain, but he was here now, alive, looking at her with what could now identified as drunken smiles, expecting to get some kind of rise out of her or a deliverance of some kind of recognition.

Sansa realized then the words that had just escaped her lips. _Sir_. Just as in King’s Landing years ago, memories of her time spent as Joffrey’s betrothed resurfaced. The tourney. Eddard Stark’s beheading. The beatings. Her moon blood. The battle of the Black Water. Everything came flooding back in an instant. And just like that, Sansa felt herself revert to the same small girl from back then, teetering before the presence of the Hound who still to this day served as a mystery to the ever boding thoughts that refused to cease, plaguing both thoughts and dreams.

 

Slacking to one leg, the Hound inhales a deep breath, his eyes roaming her figure up and down slowly, analyzing. “You’re finally a woman.” The words sent shivers down her spine, whether from fear or something else that could not be placed. In the past his gaze always felt scrutinizing, judging maybe, but his actions always spoke against those armored eyes. He never lied, only spoke the harsh truth a younger Sansa never wished to hear. But as a woman, she had heard and learned many things a younger Sansa had not understood. Been called many things, seen many things, and experienced many things. Things most Lady’s would never dream of, a former notion that she would forever be locked away safe inside the confinements of her lord husbands castle, the only worry being to uphold their home and bore children while her husband went off to fight wars. This however was something Sansa was not trained to handle. It left her panicked and on edge, like a doe pierced by a huntsman's arrow, dragged back to suffer at the hands of whatever fate may lay ahead. A bird, caught in the jaws of a snarling hungry dog. How fitting. Perhaps even now he still saw her as just a little bird in these moments. But that was wrong. She was a wolf, no longer a bird reciting everything it was told. Soon he too would learn this, for Sansa would bow to no man any longer.

 

“The Imp will be having you soon.” The Hound pulls himself up straighter, a smile torn between what could be read as belittlement and mocking.

 

Everything fit together finally. The letter received from Jon regarding Daenerys’s arrival and her party had mentioned a particular dwarf representing Hand of the Queen. _‘He was traveling with Jon after all. For how long? How much does he know, what has Tyrion told him?’_ “Taking you into his bed.” He adds, eyes glancing at her lips for a brief moment before returning to pools of ocean blue behind long lashes. Sansa sensed the tension past the mask even through peaked tears.

 

_‘Sometimes when I’m trying to understand a person’s motives, I play a little game. I assume the worst.’_

 

What could the motives be of a man who turned greenboy and abandoned his King during mid battle have? For finding and keeping Arya safe, even after the Crown had ordered his best men to find her and return her, for months and months of searching with no luck? No one had seen the young wolf for years, yet somehow Sandor Clegane had, and Arya chose to remain by his side in the end.  

 

And the mob, when multiple men had her on her back and Joffrey had all but abandoned her for his own safety. Had the Hound not come for her she would have been left mutilated likely dead in a ditch after they finished their rounds. The thought unnerved her, remembering the letter Ramsey had wrote when threatening to let each of his soldiers receive a turn with her had his wife not been returned.

 

Then there was the night of the Blackwater, rousing from sleep and strewn about her bed, making his way to sit in a chair while downing wine from a leather skin, startling her of his presence, promising words of safe travel and an opportunity to escape. An opportunity Sansa had turned down, one that she wished time and time again that could be reversed, figuring none of this would have happened if only she had believed in the only man who had her best interests at heart.

 

Yet here he stood now, cornering the Lady of Winterfell outside of her chambers looking at her like she was a fresh piece of meat and speaking to her of her later husband taking her to bed. The Hound was all bark and no bite. The man would never hurt her regardless of such cruel purposely spoken words in order to goad a reaction. Like courtesies as an armor, rudeness and unpleasantries were his. A facade to protect the man beneath.

 

Tyrion did not touch her back then, nor would he touch her now, woman or not. If the proposition arose that the imp was to consummate their former marriage, Sansa would be sure to see to it that another husband would fall to the jaws of hungry dogs.

 

The worst the Hound could do is to never show the man beneath, keeping the mask permanently on, locking Sandor Clegane beneath forever. With liquid potion already stirred within his belly, it would be easy enough to bring his true motives to life if the right buttons were pushed. And if this chanced theory was correct, all actions leading up to this moment would be determined, a puzzle finally solved.

 

All that was needed to be done was to draw out the confession. 

 

The Sansa Stark from King’s Landing was a mask. A mask she would now use again to deceive one of the strongest of men.

 

“My wedding night was the happiest-”

 

“Stop that!” He near yelled, grabbing her by the elbow so sharply it forced out a yelp.

 

Sansa winced trying to pull back, the grip too strong, this small mere display of strength forcing her to question just how strong he truly was. “You’re hurting me, please, sir-”

The word came out once again. But what could she call him? Hound? Dog? He renounced that title the moment he told Joffrey to fuck himself.

 

“Sir!” Now he was shouting, eyes bewildered with something between hurt and anger. “I’m a dog, remember? The Kings dog. And you’re his bird. Won’t you sing a song for me, little bird? Something about knights and fair maidens?” The silence lingered between them, Sansa not daring to utter a word to give in to his drunken request. She hadn’t needed to. The answer was there before her in clear daylight of his intentions shown through liquid courage. “Go on, sing.” The tone in his voice becoming more impatient than before, more gravely and harsh.

 

“You won’t hurt me.” Sansa spoke in absolute.

 

“ **_Sing_ **!”

 

“I don’t know any songs! Not anymore.” And that was the truth. When had she last sung? Last prayed even? It had been years. So long ago that the very last time was the last night the two parted ways. Knights of stories did not exist no more than maidens who proudly married for love. Did the Hound believe she was nothing less than a fair maiden still? How much of a pity it would be to discover otherwise the cold hard truth of every trial faced ever since. One could only imagine the surprise when learning the little bird was dead, only used as a facade, a cloak of protection.

 

As if on signal, Tyrion stepped forth once ascending the last step of the staircase to the tall tower, looking at them both in question. His hair was a cascade of darker curls, no longer a golden hue like the rest of the Lannisters. A thick beard covered the majority of his face matching the tone of clothes worn, a small pin placed at the breast bone indicating his placement as Hand of the Queen.  “Clegane, what’s going on?”

 

Of all the people to interrupt, it had to be the dwarf. Sansa was unsure whether to be thankful or insulted by what looked to be a gleam of chivalry behind the imps questioning gaze.

 

She felt the hand that held her arm in place slowly drop, for a split moment missing the firm touch that measured in reassurance that this was not just a dream.

 

“Never mind Imp. I was just...taking the little bird-”

 

“I’ll see to the lady. Go and find a tree to piss on.”

 

Even now, the Lannister belittled him, a man who had no power over the Hound yet still treated him like a dog, though the Hound seemed to gather his thoughts well enough to realize what had just transpired between them, the line he crossed and mistake he made, ushering himself out in what could last be seen as a look of disgust - whether with himself or the imp, one could not say entirely.

 

Sansa turned to the dwarf, reprimanding her courtesies. “Thank you, my lord.” A thank you he didn’t deserve, but was given nevertheless. Sandor Clegane would never harm her, and if he had, there was little the imp could do to stop him anyhow.

 

“Lady Sansa, it has been some time since we last saw one another. I apologize for coming directly to your chambers, but I was instructed by the King to see to it that you may feel well enough to return to the dining hall. There is important matters that your brother wishes you to be present for.”

 

“And he sends you of all people to fetch me, why?” The atmosphere changed instantly, the wolf within clawing its way to the surface, the mask falling. Tyrion was not a bad man, least not until proven otherwise, but if there was the possibility for a renewed marriage on Jon’s order, the Hounds accusation proving true - it could only add fuel in bringing out the worst of anger from within.

 

“It’s been a very long journey and I wish for nothing more than to retire for the night. My chambers given were in this direction and I agreed to deliver the message along my way. It looks bad enough for one Stark to leave dinner just before important announcements are made let alone another wandering off in search of you.”

 

“Rumors do not frighten me of my whereabouts, my lord.” Sansa retorts, frowning. “I know what is true and what is not.”

 

“Be that as it may, your brother insisted it was imperative you return, if only for the presence of announcements. And I’d much like to return to my chambers for a long rest. I do not wish to test the patience of your King, nor my Queen.” Tyrion smiled sheepishly.

 

Conceding, Sansa exhales a sigh of defeat, not wishing to keep the others waiting. “Very well.” Hoisting up her skirts, she makes her way past the imp and descends down the steps. The worst of the evening had come to pass and the announcements would be everything discussed earlier in the solar, correct? Or was there more to it Jon had not added? Surely her presence was not simply only for morale. If so, Sansa would be sorely displeased.

 

“Sleep well, Lord Tyrion.”

_‘It may be the last night you sleep if the Hounds words come to fruition.’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It dawned on me it's possible they deleted the S2 scene to use again or just rewrite it? If not oh well, makes for an interesting reunion to say the least. 
> 
> Another chapter written around 1am, yippy.
> 
> Song chapter:
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PC2MFz6n4u0


	5. Vinegar and Salt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post Season 7.
> 
> The army of the dead has breached The Wall, Jon is returning to Winterfell with the Dragon Queen and her army at their backs, and Cersei has declared war in the South. With Winterfell caught in the middle, Sansa must take action and seize each opportunity that could help to not only save her people, but herself as well. And with long forgotten memories coming back to haunt her, she's not sure if she's ready to face death just yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took me awhile to write because I wanted it written in a particular way that my brain just couldn't articulate to put on paper. But I did my best and here is the slow burn delivered as promised. In my opinion these two have a lot to work through in order to understand one another and work past the barriers and walls built over time. So I think if anything someones gonna have to break down their own facade first if we're to hope to see anything relatively canon in terms of this ship. 
> 
> Song Chapter:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pp9fbmZUs5A

**SANDOR POV**

  
  
As Sandor walked away from Sansa he felt the pang in his stomach grow deeper than before at the realization of what all had just transpired within these past hours. Everything felt like a cruel taunt within a repetitive nightmare, straining on nerves and tugging on emotions fought to put to rest. The alcohol had clouded his mind and words had begun spilling out of from jealousy and pent up frustration from every blockade that presented itself hindering him from ever having a chance with her. What use was telling the truth if the dream had no possible way of evolving to fulfillment? After years apart and Sandor still couldn’t find it within him to keep the dog at bay and voice what really needed to be said. This had all played out wrong, so very wrong. And now there was no taking it back.

With disgust in himself, Sandor held his head low so as not to meet the eyes of those still wandering around who gazed, whether from the overpowering aura he gave off from his seething anger or the recognition of the scars and concluding who the brute was that stormed along.

The walk back to closed quarters was by no means a pleasant one.

 

Upon their earlier arrival it was clear Winterfell had seen much better days. After the Greyjoys rebellion it was said the home was left as rubble scattered among the ashes of the fallen. Years later it now bustled with soldiers and folk of all type in an effort to rebuild a tarnished home.

The room given to him was bland and almost the same as the last visit. There was nothing unique about it - a hearth in the corner, a desk for meals and sitting, and a trunk at the foot of the bed to hold armor, clothes, and other necessities. Sandor had not arrived with much aside from the clothes on his back. Though the feather bed served satisfying enough versus the freezing tundra beyond the wall and leaving little to complain about of the abode. It was generous of Jon, trying to provide to what length he could by seeing to the needs and requests of the men who traveled with him beyond the wall. A request for alcohol of any sort was the highest demand from most the men, Sandor himself included.

Not ten minutes after retiring to the room a rap had come to the door with the deliverance of said wine, though scarce as it was here in the North. There was a small supply untouched within the cellars that Jon informed would be distributed accordingly. Fortunate Sandor was one of few who earned the privilege to drown himself into a drunk stupor dare he please - which is exactly what he had planned to do.

 _‘She’s_ here. _'_

Sandor hadn’t needed to see her face to know it. It was like a push and pull of waves that sucked him in. An unspoken connection that subconsciously alerted him of her unwarranted needs. A feeling that more often than not was acted upon by impulse leading to the conclusion that things were just as they felt, that something was _wrong_. Like a poison creeping into his veins and pulling limbs like strings played by a puppeteer and fogging the mind, clouding all rational judgement but instead to act on impulse. Did the girl even realize the immutable imprint she left on a scarred old dog?

A dog who ran to its master if ever hinted at finding themselves in some type of peril.

 

An hour or more so after their arrival, everyone began to have gathered in the great hall once finally settled in. Clegane found himself seated between the smith, Gendry, and Jorah the Andal, both of which who were distracted in mid conversation by others surrounding them at the table. The presence of the Unsullied and Dorthraki within the large room set a bar of perplexity knowing that both units were equally savage on the field, and the Dorthraki especially so when off the field. Their customs were questionable by the Westerlands standards, knowing them to be savage beasts who pillaged and destroyed, taking whatever they wanted. Including lands, resources and women all alike with no prejudice. Filling the halls with men like them, though loyal to their Queen, did no use to settle the caution that stirred Sandor's primal instincts. There was not one soldier among the Queens men he could find himself trusting.

Jorah had proven himself a formidable man by action and wisdom, but not someone who had been given the chance to properly meet, only side by side by while fighting off the dead, pinned on a frozen lake beyond the wall. Questionably Dondarian served as more trustworthy than any of the lot that had come across, but even then the man was stationed back at the wall.

Not much for conversation, Sandor had chosen to down the wine given back at his room, bringing the remains to dinner and grateful of the decision. The noise of the room was boisterous to say the least, the typical talk mingling around about war, women, and drunken stories of the lot, none of which he felt inclined to partake in at the time. The alcohol, though now a foreign taste with years spent apart, aided in keeping a warm belly and a sound distraction. It did nothing however to ease the encroaching anticipation upon seeing the little bird once again.

When Sandor’s eyes drew themselves to the high table to distract himself from anything but that around him and to seek out that which he knew was inevitable, he finally saw her at last. _Really_ saw her. Not just the facade put on display for appearances.

A woman now full grown, not the same little bird that had been left behind back in the Red Keep. Hair as vibrant as embers clashing against gray tones of thick fur, cobalt eyes so striking they could cut through a man’s flesh with a single glance. The Stark who sat among her siblings reunited now did not smile, nor did she frown. The face she held was near undetectable, coated in armored steel to mask the marred human tucked underneath. The face of a wolf, skin as pale as the direwolf companion that walked alongside her through the Trident in what felt like a lifetime ago. She was no longer just a pretty girl, but bloomed into that of a beautiful woman.

Beside her had sat the she-wolf, just as changed as her sister in comparison to their former selves. Dark hair that ran past the shoulders, tucked back into a tie. A grin of entertainment tugging at the corner of her lips while she scouted the hall of all its inhabitants. At first Arya's eyes seemed distracted and Sandor thought for a moment she was staring at him. Instead it was the blacksmith whose attention she intensely focused on, watching in curiosity as her lips turned from a smile to that of surprise, caught off guard. For whatever reason Arya had to gaze upon the boy, whether they knew one another or not, it payed Sandor no matter. The girl looked healthy and well, dressed in garb fit for a warrior rather than a lady, as to be expected. Brienne’s words resounding in his thoughts confirmed indeed that the she wolf had turned into a worthy killer just by the looks of how she presented herself. It didn’t take a genius to see the talent brewing through hate, just as once had become of himself. But Arya had family, friends, and a home to fall back on, whereas Sandor had nothing and no one. A nobody. A man who had only a sword to offer. And now, maybe not even that much.

 

Then Arya's gaze finally fell on him. And when they had, she leaned in closely to her elder sister beside her and spoke words Sandor could not understand. It was only then that Sansa’s eyes had finally met his own.

Sandor felt his pulse begin to quicken, whether from the intense gaze or the wine fogging his sensibility, he could not say for certain. He had become so transfixed by Sansa's appearance and acknowledgment he almost hadn’t realized they were talking with one another without removing their eyes from his figure.

_‘They’re talking about me. They must be.’_

But why did the sudden former gaze of prudence change so quickly to that of dejection when the little birds eyes fell upon him? Sandor had begun to _feel_ it. The uneasiness that trembled from her lips, though far away as she may be. It was as though he could detect the girls emotions of shock and confusion without needing to hear them spoken aloud.

And now he probably had looked like a gawking fool while caught staring.

The thought kicked in that Arya may have been telling her any memory or moment between their time spent traveling through the Riverlands together. A reminder of the sinful confession on a deathbed, laying out to die in open plains after pleading for a mercy kill. Sandor was not sure how to approach the lady if she had already known. The Little Bird may always be scared of him if he didn’t say something. _Do_ something.

Before he had had the chance to reconcile his thoughts, Brienne of Tarth had entered the room and stood between their line of sight. All for the better mayhaps since the wine had finally kicked in and begun producing intruding thoughts of both good and bad.

Sansa Stark was the Imp’s by law and by the gods. The King’s sister by blood, a King he volunteered his sword to in order to fight off the impending army that marched for the Wall. There was no use in fighting against odds that could not be conquered. She being just another one of them.

And with no further desire for food, Sandor left the great hall.

He had barely made it up the steps to one of the towers in hopes of exploration so as to cause a diversion for himself until the sounds of footsteps coming from below the steps drew his attention from the set task. It only proved to escalate far deeper than one would hope when the one who had presented themselves was the little bird herself, the overbearing desire in the flesh.

Things had then quickly fallen apart thereafter.

 

\--

 

Hours had passed once Sandor finally managed to fall asleep. Not long after, a soft knock came to the door barely scarce enough to hear. Whoever it was could piss off after the shit evening he was having, he thought to himself. The large man began folding his weight further into the bed, inhaling the scent of furs that promised warmth and comfort. Though there was no real desire to return back to the nightmare that came to life behind closed off, a deep voice in his subconscious had reared its ugly face in mockery, laughing at the Hounds predictable actions from earlier.

Sandor’s head continuously throbbed due to the aftermath of consuming such a heavy portion of alcohol after so many years passed going without, his tolerance dropped to a new low. It was almost pitiful how a man of his caliber and size couldn’t even hold down two wine skins. It was fucking pathetic. Yet the alcohol still drew him in, promising him comfort if he drifted back to unconsciousness as soon as the atmosphere was silent once again.

Nearly fallen back asleep, the door suddenly makes a soft creek and begins to open itself, instantly alerting Sandor to the intrusion and breach in privacy. As a seasonal warrior his first instinct is to reach for the sword suspended on the back of the headboard, close to the edge of the bed, then slowly unsheathing it ever so quietly so as not to alert the intruder. The fire in the hearth died only an hour earlier, a small thing as it had been, leaving Sandor to the mystery and allurement of who dared intrude upon the chambers of the infamous Hound. _‘You didn’t bar the door before passing out drunk, you cunt.’_

When the door fully closes itself and no further footsteps can be heard, the shadowed figure hesitantly stands and seemingly stares, likely trying to seek his sleeping form out within the darkness. When Sandor makes no move to alert of his awareness to their presence, the intruder finally seems to fold and moves to exit the chamber, a movement of what sounds like the rustling of skirts being pulled up from the floor. Before the faint yellow gleam of the nights moon is able to shine through the crack of the slowly opening door, Sandor makes it to the opposite end of the room in two long strides slamming either hand roughly against the polished wood, trapping the figure where they stand. If he hadn’t acted so quickly he might have thought first to put the sword down, whereas now the edge of the sharp steel is gently pushed along the esophagus of the startled being beneath him.

“Why are you here?” He spits in anger and confusion all at once, knowing very well who was foolish enough to come here at this hour. He could smell the wine on his own breath, wondering if she could smell it too. Not that it mattered really. It was written all over his face and actions in the hours of earlier light. There was no need to pretend and lie to uphold appearances at this point.

“To apologize.” The female voice spoke, her body not wavering and keeping steady under his overbearing gaze unseen within the dark. Perhaps this was for the best that they could not see one another. Sandor was tormented enough by the notion she still couldn’t look him in the face without turning her gaze elsewhere, her eyes usually looking everywhere else unless forced to look otherwise, or when trying to muster up the strength to speak in courage. The few times she truly looked him in the face, she always spoke to him in truth and confidence. Now, in the dark, he was unsure if he would be able to tell her lies from the truths.

“Apologize?” He couldn't help but scoff in disbelief.

“And to thank you.”

“Thank me!” Sandor shouted in mockery and disappointment, baffled by the words now spewing from that same chirping mouth from so long ago. How many lies had she been stuffed with over the years? How many other predators had dug their claws and teeth beneath her feathers, influencing her to become something she was not? “Fuck me.” He breaths in a soft laugh, stepping back and lowering the blade to his side, loosely hung. “Thank me?  For what? What could you possibly believe you owe me thanks for?” He decided to give her the benefit of the doubt and let her speak in elaboration. 

“For many things!” Sansa raises her voice, refusing to back down. This was much like the same tone she corresponded with on the day she had asked him why he was so hateful, standing up to him in trying to understand his morals and actions, momentarily dropping her courtesies in order to ask questions she shouldn’t be seeking answers for. “How is it you can be so…so-”

“So what?” He demanded.

“Dense!” The words rip from her mouth as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

 _Dense._ He was dense to many things, yes, that was not wrong, but so was she. To more than just him, but to herself as well. Sansa never needed to lie to him, out of everyone in the word Sandor thought he made it clear enough she could place her trust within him, but that seemed to go over her head as well. And now here she stood for the second time tonight speaking a false truth ingrained and repeated through past teachings.

Dogs do not lie, and neither should wolves. Yet here barked the very grown wolf with the dishonest lies of a little bird who masked the truth again with courtesies, still very much far from freedom inside that same personal cage.

She revealed steel armor, refusing to allow herself to stand down to him despite his harsh responses that made most people flee. Whether from the dark that masked their faces from seeing the others eyes or the time stacked up through time and experience in becoming a strong willed woman, he could not quite tell from which it could be blamed on.

“You have aided House Stark many times, and not just for me-” She tries and but is interrupted.

“Another lie.”

Sansa scowls in defense taking a step closer. At the close proximity he can feel her breath on his face as she huffs back defiantly. “I am not lying!”

“It is a lie!” The anger begins to resurface, causing Sandor to turn his back on the female and tossing his unsheathed blade upon the tabletop in the corner of the room, just before turning his body and head back to face her, a deep scowl resounding from his lips in disgust. “And there it is again - that denseness of your own. So blinded by the fake world you live in that you can’t even tell the difference between what’s real and not anymore.” He had known because he was there too, trapped within the same world. Her world.

“Sneaking into my room in the late hours of the night? What is this shit? Your sister tell you what I said? Is that it? Some empathy bullshit because you feel sorry for me? You think to come here to give me some kind of payment for keeping her safe? Well piss on that. I’m no fucking knight that earns favors from a pretty maiden. Wolf bitch should have left me to die on that hill. All the good its done me since.”

She did not respond to that. Only gazed back, increasing to annoy him.

“Get out.” The words were meant to be rude and cruel. But the little bird remained glued in front of him as if she had not heard them to begin with.

“No.” It was so stern that he almost would have thought it was Cersei herself speaking. A tone full of demand and confidence. Attributes one could appreciate in a woman, though the cunt herself Sandor still couldn’t stand. “I am staying.” Sansa said as if it was final by law. Words spoken from a Queen to that of a soldier.

Sandor began to move around her petite figure so as to grab the door and forcefully move the other out but Sansa’s hand was quicker than his own and grabbing his wrist before it reached the door handle, causing the large man to pause in response. The feeling of her cold skin willingly against his own sent sudden shivers down his spine, like a green boy who’d never felt human contact before in his life. Except the touch sent something else within him. Something he could not quite explain, much as the same in the past whenever their bodies met in small subtle ways - whether from the moment at the Crossroads when his hand grazed her back or from the time when he lifted her from the dirt ridden floor and hoisted her over his shoulders, bringing her back safely to the castle.

He remembers the emotions she sent through his own body in those moments. At the Crossroads it was the fear of Illyn Payne she felt, not of him. Sandor back then had wished to establish trust and loyalty within the young Stark girl, normalizing her fear of Illyne Payne and his face by telling her that the man scared him as well even if it wasn't the truth. But as she aged, Sandor knew it was time to stop pretending and instead telling her only the truth in order for Sansa grow a thick enough hide to become capable of facing men far worse than some man who lacked in a tongue to speak, the art of killing the only language he spoke. And then there was the day of the riot when the mob had her on her back. Something within drew him to her whereabouts without having even seen where the small thing had been dragged off to. The feel of her weight strewn over his muscles shoulder as he carried her back to safety tied a knot within the stomach that could not be entirely described as good or bad. Only senses pulsed through his body at the time alerting him that the girl felt safe in his arms, comforting information to revel in that he was there to save her when subconsciously called for help. The little bird was like some type of witch, playing tricks in his head against his own will. Had she only come to comprehend what else went on within his head, the girl may have decided this was a poor idea and would have sooner made for the door quicker than when she came in. 

 

Laughing pretentiously, Sandor only instead moves closer, pinning her up against the wall of the door frame, their bodies ever so close to touching, Sansa’s fingers still wrapped around his wrist. This close the smell of lemons and lavender wafted through the mans nostrils, the same aroma envisioned through lonely nights to make the dreams of the Stark girl that much more real. “You going to risk yourself getting locked in the kennel with the dog? What a stupid girl you really are to have come here.”

“The only stupid part of me was not seeing you for who you really are, only until now.” Sansa’s words cut the air like ice, cutting into the Hound like a steel blade and leaving only the man beneath to show left. “You're right. How had I not realized it before? I was a stupid girl back then. And perhaps I still am, coming to you now after everything that has happened. But I finally understand.” Sansa then places her other hand upon his bare chest, her fingers softly tickling the hairs on his torso from the delicate touch and eliciting a bit back groan from the large man. She was barely touching him and already the connection was too much for Sandor to handle, his mind feeling like it was being controlled once again, frozen only by her will and command to do so subconsciously.

“I finally understand myself, as well.” Through the darkness of the room Sansa chokes back a laugh of cheerfulness and sadness all at once. “Because I feel it too. I felt it all along, I think...I just never came to understand it until I saw you again. I had thought...Ever since you left that night that you may have died. And when I had heard Brienne had bested a man in combat traveling alongside my sister, I finally came to understood shortly after who it was. When Arya spoke aloud that my shield had bested the Hound, I then knew. It was you, the whole time. Of all the men in the kingdoms sent out to look for Arya with months and months of no luck, who of all people but you to find her. And you kept her safe no less, so much so that she refused to leave your side when Brienne sought to take her from you and bring her to safety. You had no connection to her, nor any intention to return her to King's Landing.”

Sandor didn’t want to hear this. Not of praises that were undeserved. The little she-wolf survived on her own and not because of him. If he couldn’t even best a woman in combat how was he expected to be capable of being a worthy enough man to protect someone worth meaning to him? Good riddance that he was left there to die. Six feet down in the ground is where the remains of the Hound should properly belong.

"Brienne found you both near the Vale. You planned to return her to any remaining family left, hadn't you? But even when our Aunt Lysa was pronounced dead, you still chose to  protect Arya after."

Sandor closed his mouth once he realized he was gaping at her, thankful for the lack of light to reveal so. Instead, he ground his teeth, responding in the only way he knew how in a way of defense. A defense she was very quickly knocking down, lest she keep up. “That’s because there is no safety out there, or anywhere for that matter.”

“Correct you are." She nods. "I’m afraid we’ve all learned that the hard way through our own struggles and strife. But we can also use these experiences to grow smarter, _stronger_. Protecting someone you love gives you purpose. A reason to keep living.”

“Is that so?” Sandor didn't like where this is going, wishing desperately she would remove her hand before he does something irreversible and regrettable. Yet his entire body was stuck to its place, ridden from its own free will.

“That’s why you’re here, I think. Because you never stopped protecting the ones you love.”

“Love is it? You think I love that little brat? She ever tell you the time she planned to bash my head in with a rock? Or stab me with that pathetic sword of hers, Needle, with her fancy water dancing? I imagine not. I may have been aiding in keeping her safe but I can sure as the seven hells tell you that she didn’t need me protecting her. Left me there to die and took what little money I had left. Seemed to have gotten home fine on her own. No, girl. She doesn’t need me.”

“Perhaps not. Arya is a faceless man now after training for years in Braavos, or so I'm told. I don’t imagine she wishes for any protection, but that does not mean that she doesn’t still need it.”

“If she’s as you say then she should be more than capable to take care of herself just fine on her own. All the more reason she doesn’t need anyone's help, let alone mine. You want her protected so desperately? Assign Brienne of fucking Tarth to do it. Big bitch has proven herself well enough.” Sandor reasoned, trying to force her out of his head the unwarranted manipulation - or so it felt.

Sansa only proceeded to protest more in response. “Brienne is already sworn to me as my shield, she cannot swear fealty to another. Which is why I can trust no one but you. You have proven yourself worthy more times over than you seem to think. There is no one else I can ask this of.”

“I’m no knight. I don’t make vows.” He reminded, unconvinced of her admittance.

“No, you are not a knight. But you have already made vows. Once to Arya and to once to me. The night Stannis Baratheons fleet landed on the shores of Kings Landing and you came to my chambers during the heat of battle, you asked me if I wished to return home, promising that you would keep me safe had I agreed.”

Sandor recalls the night and in that moment wishing there was any other excuse to respond with to redirect the subject or shut her down in quick response. But there was no use in lying anymore when the truth was already starting to surface. And who was he to deny her that? Something Sandor himself desperately sought out for himself as well. “Aye.” The exterior shell of the Hound was crumbling even further.

“Then make another vow to me again. Swear yourself as Arya’s shield in this war to come, if only for my sake and request.”

“And why would I do that?” Sandor scoffs. “Because I love her, as you seem to claim?”

“Yes.” Sansa answers with certainty, eyes surely boring back into his own hues of gray. Though her face is unreadable, Sandor is certain by the tone in her voice that her lips are pulled back into a smile, soft fingers against his skin curling themselves into a fist, sending heat from his face all the way down to his lower body in emotional exposure. “And because you love me as well.”


	6. Wasteland

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post Season 7.
> 
> The army of the dead has breached The Wall, Jon is returning to Winterfell with the Dragon Queen and her army at their backs, and Cersei has declared war in the South. With Winterfell caught in the middle, Sansa must take action and seize each opportunity that could help to not only save her people, but herself as well. And with long forgotten memories coming back to haunt her, she's not sure if she's ready to face death just yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was fairly difficult to write but maaaaaaaan did it kick me in the butt. Hope you guys enjoy it as much as I do.
> 
> Now boarding the train to Fuck These Feels Ville.
> 
> And as always a reminder that I have no beta and since I keep to a busy schedule during the week (currently in the process of job changing and moving to a new house) it means my chapters are likely gonna have a few errors here and there and slow updates.
> 
> Oh look at the time. It's 3am. Welp, I tried. Goodnight folks. 
> 
> Song Chapter:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wye3IW3st2M

**SANDOR POV**

  
  
The man grows ever so silent, his shallow breathing raged, choosing silence over voice. So Sansa continued. “My brother, Bran...I’m not sure what happened to him in our years of separation beyond the wall, but...he sees visions now. Calls himself the Three Eyed Raven. We’ve learned crucial information that he’s seen through these visions, one of the two mentioned that may determine whether we live or die. The first being my bastard brother Jon. He was never a bastard at all, but the son to my aunt Lyanna and Rhaegar Targaryen, making him the true rightful heir to the iron throne.” She nearly whispered, as if not truly believing it herself. “In the Great Hall this evening Jon announced to all his rightful claim, which caused an uproar but important information you seemed to have missed in your choice of passing out here drunk. What’s more is he and Queen Daenery’s plan to unite in marriage and ally both forces to bring an end to the Night King and Cersei. While Daenery’s remains here to help defend the North Jon plans to march on King’s Landing and ask Cersei to either swear fealty or demand that she stand down, through force if necessary. Should he succeed my brother will no longer be King in the North but ruler of the Seven Kingdoms. With King’s Landing made available Northeners will have an opportunity to travel South before the dead come for us.” Suddenly the atmosphere become solemn. “But there is more to it than just that.” Sansa hesites, an uneasy feeling of anticipation of what is to come next.

Sandor was more than thankful Sansa changed the subject on her own accord without having to give her a response to the prior accusation but was in no way prepared to face the new bit of information just presented and the next bit even worse.

“Bran has also seen Eastwatch by the sea, fallen weeks ago. The dead have already marched beyond the wall. Only those who need to know are aware of how close they are. I ask that you keep this information to yourself and tell no one. We cannot afford an uprising anymore than we have against the current Northern Lords and their distaste in Jon’s heritage. They are already angry enough my brother bent the knee to the Dragon Queen.”

His stomach lurched at the new information. If the wall had truly fallen then that meant the dead were not far from reaching Winterfell. How much time would they have to evacuate all the civilians and round up enough soldiers to push back the Night King’s forces? A week? Days? Maybe even less. If the army of the dead destroyed the Wall easily enough they would have no trouble destroying the fortresses that littered the lands along their path. Winterfell would not be likely to stand a chance even with the Queen Daenery’s forces of Dothraki and Unsullied backing them up.

“Do you understand now why I ask this of you? With Arya knowing she’ll be even further motivated to remain and fight and I will _not_ send my one and only sister to fight in a war that we are not certain to win.”

Sandor asked the question he dreaded most, as if it gave any power to a confirmed answer to which he had not given. “What is it you would have me do then?” Feeling his lip twitch at the burnt side of flesh the bulk of a man moved to sit on the large bed, the weight causing a dent in the mattress and a creek rattling from the structure of the wood from trying to accomodate.

“Jon is determined to leave tomorrow and waste no more time so that as many men, women and children can travel with safe passage heading South. With Jon gone it will leave Winterfell to my lead and command. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. I refuse to abandon my home after all that I’ve suffered and bled to take it back. There are few Starks and even fewer left to carry on the bloodline. Bran refuses his right to rule Winterfell and Jon will have King’s Landing as his new home should he succeed. That will leave Arya left as the last remaining key to the North.”

That didn’t sound right. Sansa had all but failed to mention herself. Or was it that she planned never to take a lord husband after the last two? If that was the reason Sandor couldn’t blame her. The Imp was a drunk and more often than not found his bed warmed by those in brothels rather than in his own chambers. And there was the Bolton bastard. It may have been a mystery to what had unfolded that series of events but if it was enough to warrant feeding her husband to his own dogs then it clearly meant she had not found the knight she desperately sought out as a fair maiden in need of rescuing. The Boltons were a cruel house not known for mercy and flayed the truth from men. And the little bird had always been a terrible liar. But in the end she had still became her own knight and saved herself.

There could only be two other possible reasons as to why the statement was worded the way it was. The only feasible possibility why Sansa Stark would refuse her birth given right as next in line of succession.

Either she could not produce children, none to show after two marriages, or worse. She did not expect to last  through the winter.

Sandor wasn’t stupid. He knew exactly what she meant even if it wasn’t directly stated. Was she simply afraid to tell him the truth, knowing how he may react? Or was this just another selfless act on her part?

“You expect to die.” It wasn’t a question as much as it was a matter-of-fact statement.

Sansa replied with nothing and he knew the truth had been sniffed out for what it was.

Ripping his hand away from the tight grip wrapped around his wrist, Sandor yanks back harsher than meant to which forces her to take a step back in response. Her hands curl into fists tightly at her side and he knows she must be scared of him now that the shell of the dog is growing back its hair and rearing its ugly head again. The reputation as the Hound has always proceeded the man even without having to say or do anything. “You…You plan to sit here in your castle and let them come for you, don’t you? You’re no military leader. This isn’t about standing with your people.”

No. They both knew exactly what it was. And it made him seethe.

“You’re going to let your pride be the death of you because you refuse to leave your home when it’s the one thing you’ve fought hardest for to take back?” Sandor challenged, expecting her to deny these claims but only received silence as a solid answer that he was in fact correct yet again.

Maybe she expected to become a hero herself from one of those songs she loved so much, sacrificing herself while her siblings and people made it out to safety, pulling some noble shit about honor and love and self sacrifice in the end for the good of others. Well fuck that. The dead don’t stop for courtesies or words and surely not for a peace proposal should it be presented.

With a calm demeanor Sansa proceeded to speak as if she was still talking face to face with the man beneath and not the outside persona that was the Hound. “Before they make it here to Winterfell I need you to take Arya as far South as you can wherever she will be safest. She will attempt to stay and fight but you cannot let her. Drag her by force if you must.” The words were desperate, begging almost. She knew nothing of the things he had done and somehow still placed her utmost faith in him keeping the young wolf safe. Realizing then that even if his mind told him no, Sandor would do anything she asked of him regardless so long as it was within his power to do. Her fingers, like spiders, spun a web his body could not fail to shed.

A stupid little bird always putting others before herself and always being thrown into dangerous situations that could get her hurt or killed, many of these situations never fitting to benefit herself either. The Stark girl was still a selfless person, no different than in King’s Landing on Joffrey’s name day when she denied the boy King his torment on the piss poor drunken knight who arrived late to his match. A poorly executed lie it was to save the fools life as well and Sandor just as much the fool to aid in adding to its substantial value to make it sound more believable.

Sansa Stark had grown both physically and mentally. Her wits and remarks had surely elevated since their last meeting. She held herself higher now than once before. A true wolf through and through. Her lies were more believable but still easily sniffed out from the perception of a well trained dog.

There were too many years spent apart and not enough time to reconcile all that had passed since. They had just been reunited and soon enough they would be torn apart again through outside circumstances.

“I will not use my station of power to demand this of you. I am giving you a choice. You are not a dog and I will not treat you as such. You are a person just as much as anyone else and are free to accept or deny my request as you see fit. You swore no oaths to my brother if I am to assume correct which means you are not entitled to owe him anything, despite what you said to me earlier.” Sandor couldn’t help but inwardly grin at her keen perception of seeing right through him as well. “You are free to make your own decisions. I only hope that you give me an answer, whichever it may be. So I ask this again - will you keep Arya safe and protect her when the dead come? If not for Arya, but for me?”

The air felt like it all but up and vanished from the man’s lungs. He wished then more than anything that this was all just some drunken dream. That their imminent demise wasn’t as fast approaching as predicated and that she wasn’t practically signing her own suicide. She was using both of them against him because she knew they were his greatest weaknesses aside from the insatiable hate towards Gregor.

Sandor shook his head, anger and hurt seething beneath the cold exterior that fell apart so easily when around Sansa’s presence no matter how many times the Hound tried to scare her in order to protect himself. “I can’t…” His head fell to his hands resting on both knees, the thickness in the air growing and a hot burning sensation vibrating in his pounding lungs. “I won’t.”

“Then tell me why.” Sansa said in displeasure, not out of anger or sadness, but curiosity.

Why? How could she not know why? Was it not the most obvious thing? The bloody fool was so dense she couldn’t understand that the protection of the Hound was worth nothing. Failure already presented itself twice when trying to protect either of them. What was to say he would not fail a third time? How could he live with himself if he could only save one girl he swore to protect but not the other?

“You already know why.” ‘ _Because I won’t leave you again.’_

He had already resolved himself to atoning for past mistakes and living endless years with self hate. When there was nothing left hate served just as well as any as a drive to keep living. And nothing was more hateful than failing to protect the ones you loved. Anger and rage was still better than sadness and hurt, wallowing away in one's own self pity. Yet the girl proclaimed love was what kept him alive. Something the Hound would have gawked and laughed at. But Sandor Clegane knew better, and a lie it was not. It was as if the Gods he so defiantly mocked all his life were spitting his deepest kept secrets right back in his own face to smother out his own denial. Just like presenting the Maiden reincarnate herself before his very eyes as punishment of a want he could never have.

But there was more than that, Sandor knew. Sansa had to have realized by now the truth of it herself. If not by her sister but by his own ruthless actions. The red head had her claws dug deep enough into his skin that if torn free he felt he may not make it in one piece should she deny him again through the only way of confessing he knew how.

Sandor Clegane was no buggering knight and he certainly did not see fit to earn the title either. But how could he show her everything he felt without words known how to express it?

“You said before that I was lying when I told you that you aided my House Stark multiple times.” Choosing to bring up the subject again Sansa’s eyes pierced into him through the dark, detecting of any falsehoods that may arise.

But she knew him all too well. To her, Sandor could not lie even if he tried.

Finally conceding he understood it was finally time to stop suppressing everything tucked away and face it for what it was. Explain through words what he had tried to show through actions those many years ago.

Standing firmly with his back straight, Sandor mustered any and all resolve to speak the words hanging in the back of his throat for years and slowly approached her once more. “That part is not the lie.” He corrected. The room felt claustrophobic then. It was too late to keep the inevitable truth in the dark. She may already know but she deserved to hear it from his mouth. There was no use keeping a secret if it would haunt him to his grave. Sansa expected to die in this upcoming war and damn him if he didn’t protect her or at least die trying. Now was as best time as any to confess. And with the liquid courage slowly fading from his system, Sandor had never felt so completely exposed.

He took a deep breath, bracing himself. _‘Just say it you fucking fool.’_

“At the Crossroads years ago when King Robert’s army stopped during the travel South back to King’s Landing. We spoke for the first time. You were taken back with a fear of Illyn Payne, the same man who later took off your father’s head. Do you remember, what it was I said to you that day?”

Trying to recall the memories, it took a moment before she answered. “You asked me if it was you that frightened me. Or if it was him.”

“Yes.”

  
“And that he scared you too. Something about a frightening face if I recall...”

Sandor said nothing, allowing Sansa to fully grasp the reasoning. “You were lying back then, weren’t you?” The idea sat for a moment, until then it clicked. “No, that’s not right.”

She knew well enough now that there would be no lies spoken between them. Back then she should have known it as well. The Hound was a large man and a deadly fighter known throughout the seven kingdoms and not known for fearing anything.

“You were honest to me, even back then.” Sansa realized. You didn’t lie. You only trusted me with your truth.”

“Aye, I did. And you never spoke of it to anyone, did you?”

“No.”

“The day Joffrey forced you to look at Eddard Starks severed head. You rebutted against him so he had Trant hit you upon orders. You planned to push Joffrey over the ledge after that. They would have killed you had you survived and not gone over with him.”

“But you stopped me before I could. You showed me kindness that day, even in front of Joffrey.”

“Yes. I wiped your bloody lip and advised you to give him what he wanted to save yourself from anymore avoidable violence. I’d been around the boy since he was still a young cub growing into his expanding violent streak. I knew what he was capable of. What more he could inflict with a new sense of power given to him and no consequences holding him in check. You think he would have spared your knight from drowning him in wine on his name day, if I hadn’t backed up your lie?”

A flashback then shown that of a hall filled with men and women, Joffrey pointing a crossbow down at the little bird as she raked in sobs in a pile on the cold stone floor, skirts about and tears flowing freely from accusations made against her for acts the King Wolf had committed. The girl was so frightened back then, never knowing the fear of a weapon held at one's own person. An even scarier feeling when defenseless. And he had stood by and watched and done _nothing_ to stop Trant from stripping and beating the young child. All he could do in the end was cover her decency with his Kingsguard cloak while the Imp was the one to intervene and stop the cunts tyranny.

“And Tyrion Lannister. I’ve always hated him.” For more reasons Sandor cared to admit and less time to explain in detail why. “Fitting enough that they marry you off to the dwarf after he saved you from Joffrey that day. Ought to be your true knight in the end after all.” He all about scoffed at the irony of how wrong that statement was yet all the more angry at his own self for not being the one with enough balls to stop the discriminating display.

But then there had been a time he managed to somewhat redeem himself in what little way he could. With Joffrey distracted from the mob and already moved to safety it gave an opened windowed opportunity to seek out the girl amidst the crowd without punishment. “Perhaps once I was a true knight in your eyes, the day of the riot. When Princess Myrcella was shipped off to Dorne. You were lost in the crowd, the mob throwing you on your back when I came to you.” Remembering the look in her eyes then, it had never made his blood boil so deep. Killing those men being the only satisfying thing to quench the thirst. But even then it still wasn’t fully enough. There would always be more cruel men in this world who would see fit to take her against her will should she fall into the wrong hands.

“I told you you were brave after and you spat back in my face my thanks. Perhaps that was the first time I had ever truly been upset with you.”

"Aye, I’d been upset with myself too. I went back for you of my own accord. Not an ounce or clue where you had been hauled off to either, but like some witch, you were in my head. My legs followed against my judgement and there you were, chased into an alleyway.” Sandor breathed in, searching her eyes with his own within the dark. “I was like some mutt responding to its master's call obediently.”

“But you were Joffrey’s shield, _his_ dog.” Sansa protested.

“Was.” Sandor stepped forward again, their bodies close in proximity once again. The fact that she had chosen to stay here within his presence despite his foul mood had already made her a stronger woman than half the men who dared try facing him, usually fleeing at the sound of his rough voice or scarred face. He laughed outwardly then, shaking his head back and forth. “I wondered...When it was I changed loyalties.”

“You told me one day I’d be glad of the hateful things you do when I become Queen. When you’re all that stands between Joffrey and I. I may have not understood it then, but I do now...For which I _am_ now grateful.” Sansa closed the gap between them, her gaze piercing into his as their chests met and he realized just then how tall she had grown. Her mouth so close he could kiss her if only he leaned down a little. Every nerve in his body fought off the urge to throw her to the bed and rake up her skirts and have his way with her, but he refused to give into those demons. Sandor would not be one more monster added to the list of those who have already seen to it to harm her for their own selfish interests.

“The night of the Blackwater. After the shore had caught aflame I abandoned my position. The fire, I feared. But there was another that I feared far more.”

“You were scared what might happen to me.”

Sandor nodded. “I sought out your chambers and found it empty but refused to leave until you returned. I would have taken you all the way North back to Winterfell if that’s what you desired most.” Remembering the sweet smell of her sheets and pillow, an intoxicating scent of her own, lulling him into sleep brought forth memories of just how vivid that night replayed over and over in the mind. How it could have gone differently if one thing had been changed.

“‘Not just for me,’ you had said.” His fists clenched to the side of his legs as the much needed words finally began spilling out. A final confession. “ That is where the lie falls in your statement. It is where you are wrong, little bird. It has _always_ been for you.”

Sansa breaths evenly, taking in his words and the silence bears itself more of a knife than an actual stab to the gut. Lowering himself to his knees like a forsaken man asking for forgiveness, Sandor trembles beneath her watchful gaze. “I devoted myself to returning your sister to your family once I had found her. It was for the money, I told her. I thought if I couldn’t save you from the shit stain of King’s Landing maybe your brother could. If I gave him your sister and he asked me to name my price for payment there was only one thing I’d settle for.” He looked up to her glad she could not see the unbidden tears that pricked behind grey eyes. “I’m not a knight nor a Lord. But if I became one...If it meant-”

In the darkness the sound of ruffling skirts moves about as Sansa begins to remove an article of clothing, presumably her outer cloak. Any words meant to follow catch in the back of his throat as he feels the thick heavy cloth encompass his large frame, fitting almost perfectly.

“Little Bird…”

She smiles sincerely, tears dripping down her own face, choking back a genuine laugh of what sounds like it could be happiness.

“You have always protected me, even now. But now that I know you’re alive I can’t help but try to protect you as well.”

Sansa leans down over his hulking form and does the unthinkable. She slowly lifts his chin from beneath and places a gentle kiss to the marred side of his cheek, catching him off guard. Pleased, she pulls away and strides to the door, stopping for a brief moment before allowing herself the last word. “You are no knight, Sandor Clegane. But you saved me all the same.”

When she finally leaves, Sandor pulls the fabric closer to his body and feels the rough texture with calloused fingertips. Upon realizing what the material is, his grip hardens tight like iron steel, pulling the former Kingsguard cloak further over him. Forcefully dragging himself to the bed, he eventually drifts to sleep with the warm encompass of her scent and touch lingering behind.

For the first time in a very long time since he was a young boy, Sandor slept with a weightless conscious.


	7. Pull Me Under

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post Season 7.
> 
> The army of the dead has breached The Wall, Jon is returning to Winterfell with the Dragon Queen and her army at their backs, and Cersei has declared war in the South. With Winterfell caught in the middle, Sansa must take action and seize each opportunity that could help to not only save her people, but herself as well. And with long forgotten memories coming back to haunt her, she's not sure if she's ready to face death just yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With this chapter out of the way I can finally move towards the plot intended for this fanfic and get the ball rolling!  
> If I haven't mentioned it before my expertise in writing is horror, not romance, so all these comments and kudos have been a huge help in inspiration, so thank you for that! It reassures me that my writing isn't too terrible when it comes to the lovey dovey confession aspect (even if most of it was still beating around the bush.)
> 
> I know the direction I'm planning on taking Sansa and I have a feeling some of you might not like it while others might, however TV show based wise I feel like this is more realistic and likely than them just running into each others arms and getting married and being happy, etc. Plus, I like to make my own novel characters suffer so, sorry folks. It's gonna be a thing in this fic too. >:3  
> I assume one or two more chapters are gonna be slow paced still but after this things will hopefully pick up REAL quick, so I'm looking forward to it! 
> 
> I've been listening to a lot more Dream Theater and this song just happened to go near perfectly with this chapter.  
> Enjoy!  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cHqi2hoAXYQ

**SANSA POV**

 

Sansa awakes to a rough knock on her door followed by two maids coming in and the hulking form of Brienne filling the doorway just behind them. The blondes furrowed brows reveal she arrived baring important news, waiting intently while the two women make themselves useful tearing apart the linens to wash and a third girl arriving with a tub to prepare with hot water for when Sansa returns.

“Good morning, My Lady.” Brienne lowly bows. Sansa nods in return.

“Good morning, Brienne. You are here much earlier than usual.”

Stepping forward and closing the door behind her, Brienne takes note of Sansa’s attentive notice. The sun visibly rises in the sky covered by froth illuminating a white glow into the chambers which reflects off the woman's crisp armor when stepping forward. “Yes, it’s urgent I’m afraid. Two riders arrived from the wall. Beric Dondarian and Tormund Gianstbane. Your brother requested your presence at once.”

Rode in from the Wall she said? How many men guarding the ice barrier survived if only two riders managed to make it here? If they had made it back within the time Eastwatch had fallen how close was the Night King’s army? How many casualties had they lost in the time it took these two to get here? Many questions crossed her mind requiring immediate answers.

Brusquely moving from her bed Sansa allows one of the maids to help her into one of her usual dresses. Brienne turns her back to allow for privacy, a maid pushing a thick furred coat overtop the form fitting dress once the laces were tightly secured. Sansa thanks the maids for their aid then quickly follows her shield out the door allowing the larger woman to take the lead.

 

They find Jon standing in front of two men strewn over their horses within the courtyard surrounded by curious peering eyes. Pushing past the crowd Sansa makes her way to the them and assesses how bad the situation looks. Both men are covered in blood and injuries of all sorts. Tormund’s hair and face is covered in crusted dry blood flaking from his skin, a large gash dripping just above his brow. Beric is breathing but unconscious. Nearly fallen off his horse if not for the reigns wrapped tightly around his arms keeping him in place. About to ask what happened, Sansa quickly halts and stops herself before she can, remembering the audience surrounding them. If the Northeners caught wind of just how close the army of the dead was there would be massive panic. She looks to Jon, a nod returned knowing he’s of the same mind. He and another man help pull Beric from his stead, throwing an arm over either shoulder to pull him to his feet. The man grunts in pain but is otherwise fully in tact. Both are taken further into the threshold, leaving the curious wandering eyes behind.

 

After Sam finishes examining both mens injuries he returns shortly after to Jon’s solar where he and Sansa both wait patiently for answers. “Conditions are better than I expected. Beric is still fast asleep but Tormund is coherent. Shall I bring him in?”

“Yes, that would be appreciated. Thank you, Sam.” Jon forces a smile despite his better judgement.  His face is filled with solemn, his eyes betraying his worry. In a matter of minutes Tormund steps in through the door, his face cleaned up and looking better than it did before. His eyes are sunken in and his beard is thicker than the last time she had seen him. The man has seen better days. Whatever news they came baring it could not be in the least bit good. Certainly not assuring enough from the shape they arrived in.

“Tormund.” Jon stands from his chair and steps forward, greeting the man. Tormund grasps the extended hand reached out for him and clasps Jon’s forearm, pulling him closer, a slight tremble in his voice once he spoke. There was no time for pleasantries it seemed.

“Your people don’t have much time. You need to get them out of here, _now_.”

The two men stare each other down, Jon taking in a heavy breath, his mind working in a million different ways to configure the next course of action. Sighing in defeat, he pulls away and turns to his sister who is now standing, hands fiddling with themselves in front of her lap anxiously, a look of worry-struck painted across her face. She looks to Tormund, hesitant to ask the question but finds the courage within to eat away the worry. “How long do we have?” She croaks.

The Wilding looks to her, calculating the odds until saying, “You don’t. Not much, anyways. A day. Two days if you’re lucky. We need to start evacuating as soon as we can. Immediately, preferably.”

Sansa trembles. It’s not enough time. The dead were almost upon them and here they all stood like pigs in a pin awaiting the slaughter. They had to get everyone out regardless of a granted safe passage South. Time was of the essence and something they were quickly running out of the longer they stood here relaying options. They had already made plans the night prior should the situation call for it sooner.

“Sansa,” Jon caught her attention, thoughts running rampant on and on like a derailed wagon. “I need you to keep a clear head, do you hear me?” It was not chastising, merely imploring she had the strength within to see through to designated plans and push down all fear for the sake of their people. All she could manage however was a weak nod, fighting the urges back of formulating tears knowing the impending doom approaches. She needed to be strong for her people. For her siblings. And most of all herself. And for _him_. She refused to believe the Hound would die here in the walls of Winterfell. Even if he could not promise her Arya’s protection she would see to it herself the man be escorted out against his own will if it came down to it. No longer could she bare the thought of losing any more of those she held dear.

Finally deciding, Jon stepped into the roll of King and made haste to deliver orders, leading the two outside of the solar, men quickly trotting behind to keep up and follow through with what was expected of them.“I want all strong arms available to stack firewood along the South perimeter, as many fires as we can build. Burning them won’t be enough but it will give us some time. And we need as much time as we can spare.” Tormund was quick to aid, taking charge of leading the men for this task and seeing himself to the yard where he began shouting orders and rallying up the people. Jon then turned to Sansa before parting ways. She had never seen such a face on him before. The lump in his throat difficult to swallow, unsure whether to approach as a family member or as a commanding leader. He decided to chose the later. “Gather the lords and inform them what’s happening. Tell them we need to evacuate and see to it that ravens are sent out to alert the other Northerners not present.”

“Jon-” She grabbed for his hand, hoping this wouldn’t be the last she would see of him if he was going to start traveling immediately South with civilians.

She takes a moment to read her cousins expression. Jon’s freed palm begins curling and uncurling into a tight fist steadily trying to even his breathing. His lips are pulled in a tight line and it’s easier to tell he’s trying not to lose his composure. Especially not in front of all these men he was to lead, all these people turning to him as their King. It was his job to have the most hope. The moment he lost hope was the moment they lose this war. For both their sakes, Sansa was glad Jon may have had the strength for the both of them. It was possible they may not be presented with a windowed opportunity to properly say goodbye before splitting their separate ways. But as leaders, what choices did they have?

Their own small selfish wishes paled in comparison to all the others lives at stake. What were two lives compared to hundreds? For that moral belief, Sansa respected her brother. It was a lesson Jon had taught her unknowingly, teaching by example.

Jon reminded her very much so of father. And for that it saddened and warmed her heart both. Lord Eddard Stark was an honorable man with strong beliefs and affirming morals, but it was not enough to save him. On the contrary. It ended up costing him his head. And now he was dead, never to come back.

Jon...She hoped -  prayed, he would come back. If not for his own proof of survival, but to save the last remaining Northerners should he gain an even larger army in his trek.

Even if by some miracle she made it out alive and they against some god granting odds somehow won it still wouldn’t change the fact that the snow was here and the long nights were increasing more and more each day. If the dead don’t kill the remaining bunch first, starvation surely might.

“Jon...Come back.” Sansa crossed her arms across her chest, holding herself with worry and beseeching eyes. For a moment Jon looked pained to hear her words and see her expression, then finally gave a nod of understanding. Having no time to further time left for important words, he could only force a smile, whether to lie to her or himself, she wasn’t sure. But it was a smile nonetheless.

“I won’t abandon my family. I promise.” And with a vow as his final parting words Jon was gone in a thicket of black cascading over the steps he descended down. Walking with purpose and a sense of renew, he quickly marched off to meet his men. To prepare them for a war most of them would not come back from.

 

After having taken care of the ravens and informing the lords and ladies of the current circumstances which had produced a very heated atmosphere with arguments flung this way and that, Sansa had eventually found herself walking along the rampart in a hurried pace. To the courtyard, men worked tirelessly hauling copious amounts of dragon glass through the gate to better arm Winterfell. The other men who were free of arms were instructed to round themselves up in preparation of a battle while the remaining were instructed to see to arming the battlements.  

Briefing herself for one moment to catch some air, Sansa’s hands glide over the snow covered stone railing, her eyes roaming over the side of the wall and watching as men carried carts upon carts of chopped firewood from inside Winterfell to the outer fields. By doing so Jon hoped it would create a large enough barrier that it may do some damage keeping the army of the dead at a distance for a short time. But if they used all the firewood and Winterfell should fall, the remaining survivors would end up cast in darkness, alive by sheer luck but dead from lack of resources. For everyone's sake, two days remaining would have to be wishing for a miracle.

About to turn back, Sansa pauses when something in the distance catches her eye. For as many men as there were, many in pairs carrying logs as a unit, one particular being displayed the strength to carry an entire trunk all on his own even as he staggered with fast pace. But it wasn’t the powerful strength that alluded to her who the man was, should she already know. No. It was the blending of his stature within the thicket of trees, his body covered in a cloak that mirrored the green from the snow fallen limbs he carried over his shoulder.

The Hound wore his former Kingsguard cloak, the one she had re-gifted him with only the night before. ‘ _So he had chosen to accept it after all.’_ Sansa assumed he’d choose to burn or dispose of it one way or another, a reminder of a distant time when he was still treated like a dog rather than a human. But when she gave it to him she had hoped it would instill the meaning behind it that she tried to alleviate, though poorly, through words. Her own admittance to a secret she had told no one, revealing that after all this time, when she felt she needed the most protecting, she enveloped herself within its ragged cloth and was reminded of his promise. A promise she had since given up on until discovering his status, well and alive.

 _But to wear it._ Sansa should have known.

 _‘He wears it like a lady’s favor.’_ She couldn’t help but chuckle, finding the small innocence of a grown man seeking out the very thing he denied her most as a child, shouting words at her of discouragement towards the dreams of a still learning girl, to be hypocritical on his part. His rough demeanor and cruel tongue were his way of protecting her back then. A man of action and even limited words.

He had confessed more last night than she had thought possible on his part, what with the way she remembered him. But the Hound was not the same as he once was. Much had changed about him in some aspects she could not exactly place, while others he still remained just the same. Over the course of the walk to his chambers the night before Sansa kept berating herself over and over it was not a good idea. There was so many years of separation that she needed answers for and Sansa was certain, even if showing up in his chambers in the dead of night, he would not bring her harm. It was so obvious to see that she berated herself for not seeing it before. All the signs were there, back in King’s Landing. Her assumptions had proven correct, especially when he had confirmed each one of them.

He loved her.

Everything he had done, he’d done it for _her_ . He said so himself. And in the same, Sansa believed she truly loved him too, perhaps to the same extent that she would do whatever was in her power to keep him alive and safe - but she was not _in love_ with him. It was not something she could easily promise or give. Her heart had been broken and shattered too many times to count now, for all that she has learned to love and lose. Her body beaten and bruised many times over, not at all desirable any longer to men  unless they sated themselves with the same appetite as Joffrey’s malicious delight or Ramsey’s sick perversions.

He never said as much, but Sansa theorized the Hound desired her in that way as well. When he cornered her the night before outside of her chambers, _“You’re finally a woman,”_ and looked at her with those eyes...It was the same as Petyr’s. Especially so when he had tried to kiss her, a look of longing and lust. She thought for a moment, that was exactly what the Hound had intended to do, pinning her against the wall, his eyes roaming over her body and a faint grin tugging at the corner of his burned lip.

Sansa was aware Sandor Clegane was the closest she had ever truly been to a man, aside from her father. Now as the years had passed, she had taken time to understand and comprehend the actions versus his words. He spoke rudely, cursed, had no interest in formalities nor the scene in which he was surrounded by, and yet somehow still, he had found a way to do all of these things for her without question. He willingly changed allegiances without request or prompt. Saved her and cloaked her modesty when no one else would.

But there was one thing he had mentioned that caught her off guard. Truly helped her to understand the confusion that plagued her thoughts and dreams for years.   _“Not an ounce or clue where you had been hauled off to either, but like some witch, you were in my head.”_

The nights haunted by dreams of him were no coincidence. Sansa _willed_ him to save her. It was just as he said - a dog running to its master on command. She was warging him! How did she not see it before?

Of all the times he appeared seemingly out of nowhere when she found herself in some type of peril or strife. _‘My moonblood.’_

The man had not purposely come to fetch the King’s betrothed that morning. An even unlikelier case that he was simply taking a stroll through the halls catering to the requirements of standing guard. The man heard her plea and showed up, just like Lady would have if she had wished for the direwolfs presence.

Seeking answers, there was only one person that Sansa could seek out that would have a reassuring answer to this confounding puzzle.  

Before she departed, Sansa gave one last glance down to the men at work. Finding him within the crowd again was easy enough. Any offering by the others to aid him was dismissed with a grunt, continuously trudging along his guided path back inside to haul off more.

Sansa watched him approach the outer gates, tully blue eyes fixated on the hulking form, willing to test out this theory for reassurance.

“Look at me, Sandor.” The words were barely above a whisper, cast off into the crisp wind of the long winter, dark clouds looming overhead bringing the day closer to an end.

When he looked up, meeting her eyes, Sansa felt her breath catch in her throat.

They both then knew.

They would set things right.


	8. Confession (What's Inside My Head)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post Season 7.
> 
> The army of the dead has breached The Wall, Jon is returning to Winterfell with the Dragon Queen and her army at their backs, and Cersei has declared war in the South. With Winterfell caught in the middle, Sansa must take action and seize each opportunity that could help to not only save her people, but herself as well. And with long forgotten memories coming back to haunt her, she's not sure if she's ready to face death just yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this update took so long. I had another fanfic I worked on years ago that I'm picking back up on again since enough people asked for updates. Also I just moved and changed jobs so my sleep schedule has been really out of whack which makes it harder to write. I'm used to writing around 3am whereas now a days I'm usually in bed by 10pm. :/ I'm hoping things settle soon and I'll get back into the groove of things and be able to set aside time specifically dedicated to writing.
> 
>  
> 
> This chapter itself was giving me a rough time, I'll admit. To be fair Arya and The Hound have always been my favorite characters and I loved them as a duo before I even got into SanSan so this chapter was exciting for me but also in the same a nuisance, simply because I wanted the reunion between the two to be important and heartwarming but I also needed to start laying ground work for future chapters and incorporating those in by other means of influence aside from our star OTP.  
> So it's not exactly how I wanted it, but it was satisfying enough. Hopefully it will be enough for you guys. Kudos and reviews always help fuel motivation. Constructive criticism is always welcome as well. 
> 
> And once again my constant reminder, no beta, so expect errors each and every time. My schedule is busy so I don't always catch things when half the time my revisions are when I'm running on little amounts of sleep.
> 
>  
> 
> Song for this one:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dul5aJTnS1U

**SANDOR POV**

 

_Soft hair...Soft fingers...Soft skin...Lips so smooth and creamy it melted any and all to the touch. Eyes like steel with a single look like a sword unsheathed from its scabbard._

_Right where it belongs._

_Right where it needs to be._

_Confidence blooms vividly past thick hide, an exterior bathed in a fragrant musk that can only be described as_ her _. Blazing scattered tendrils behind sleek barren shoulders and a soft sigh filled to the brim with fulfillment. Warmth radiates and leaves no room for the nip of winter's embrace. All of her being encompassed, coveted by the need and desire drawn from him and returned back through clear blue waves that threaten to entrap forever. A poison so sweet he’d die each time for a single drop. In throes of passion he desperately calls out her name - just like a real lover does. To run his thick digits through her trickles of vermilion locks, breath her in until he is drunk off her scent. Consume every last drop she has to offer just like a greedy beggar. And that’s exactly what he was. A lowborn praying to the same gods he spites for some form of response from a goddess in the form of a girl. A sign, any sign interest, affection or not._

_Each dream is different. Often times the visions are either too hazy to decipher clearly or vivid enough to feel real. He finds himself more often than not in what he thinks are her dreams rather than his own. Seeing men never seen before or places he’s never been. But she’s there, each time. Her silhouette is hazy but he knows well enough to know it’s the Little Bird. The way she presents herself - walks, talks, even the small subtle quirks of movement that indicates how she’s feeling, more than her face will ever tell. Her eyes have always said a thousand words, both igniting the flame within him and snuffing it out all the same._

_This dream was unlike any other Sandor had ever experienced. It was much, much more._

_The Lady of Winterfell’s limbs wrapped around his waist like thorny vines, holding Sandor in place with a vice like grip. Her bare back-- Seven fucking hells-, skin like porcelain that chafed against the sweat smeared stone of a wall he was slowly tantalizingly pushing her up against. He recited her name over and over like a mantra, a cursed word he was forced to repeat for the rest of his days and spell woven deep into his core.  But the name never left his lips. Only remained trapped in his thoughts._

_“Sandor,” She breathed. Gods, hearing his name on her lips so breathlessly in fervor was near enough to cause his undoing. Her next words, however, caught him off guard. “What am I to you?”_

_He needn’t even think of it. The answer rolled off his lips just as his teeth found the nape of her exposed neck, biting down and claiming her as a hound would its mate. She shudders and hums, pulse vibrating through the skin locked in place by canines. With heated breaths and moans goading him, he calls her by the only title he knows she deserves. A title she should have had long, long ago, before the world took from her more than they gave back._

_“My Queen.”_

 

“You’re going to need to stay away from her, you know.”

Arya’s voice chimes in matter-of-factly from behind, tiptoeing into the armory with the grace and silence of a cat. Sandor had just finished his prior duties helping haul logs, eager to practice with the sword now that all obligations were dealt with and anxious to break into an even greater sweat to relieve heavy tension. A clouded mind would not do. Sandor knew he was not as formidable of a warrior when it pertained to a wars of the mind and the emotions that followed. He was learning first hand that this was not a war he was sure to win. Fighting and killing was the only time he ever truly felt really alive and felt the most sure of himself, strengthening and growing stronger towards unlimitless heights, even after facing both Brienne and a hoard of the dead. When there was nothing left to live for one only had themselves to prioritize.

Now...He was not so sure.

Pulled from his stupor, Sandor grunted in an uncaring matter as though the sentence was no different than a comparison of stating the weather. “What are you going on about girl? Brienne of Tarth, is it? Tough luck beating me a second time. Bitch has got it coming if she means to kill me again."

“She just might, if you try rustling up my sisters skirts with your dirty paws.”

Sandor finally turned to face her, knowing it was only a matter of time before the girl said something. The staring at dinner last night was the likeliest giveaway. Arya had never seen him and her sister together interacting. Didn’t know what it was like back in King's Landing for either of them. The She-Wolf made it out unscathed enough before she would have been stuck just like the rest of them. Both he and the little bird trapped in a cage of liars and hypocrites with no real means of escape. But the not-so little anymore wolf girl had survived his brother, The Mountain, and slipped out of Harrenhal with her life intact as well as the rest of her body and mind. He’d dismiss his own instinctual judgement based on comparing hardships. She’d fought her battles and won them just as he.

“Is that what you think I’m doing?” Not that he hadn’t thought about his hands up her sisters skirts practically all morning, woken to a hard on encased in Sansa’s scent. Seeing her fully grown as a woman was enough imagination to get him off in a matter of seconds, stroking himself firmly to completion and spilling like a greenboy who had just seen his first pair of teets. She was like a flower that had continuously bloomed over time, outshining the rest of the garden.

The aftermath of shame washed over him, inwardly thinking he had just disgraced the little bird’s eye being from such filthy thoughts brought on by her growth. Sandor felt no better than any other man that used the image of her body to seek fulfillment, as does any lowborn who worshiped a highborn. _‘It felt so fucking real too.’_

“She’s not the same as she was back then, back before our father died. She hasn’t told me what’s happened to her but I’ve heard enough stories.”

Sandor understands now that Arya worries for her sisters health and that it has nothing to do with threatening him. It’s a warning for his own sake. _‘She doesn’t want me to hurt her sister unintentionally. Better to be informed and prepared than make a mistake that would happen at the little bird’s own expense.’_

The Starks den was proving to show just how loyal these wolves were to one another. Family meant a great deal to the King in the North and his two younger sisters. It reminded Sandor of the fierceness of the lions. Lannisters always prioritizing family above anyone who wasn’t them. With his newfound care for someone other than himself Sandor was finally able to place the puzzle pieces together as to why the Queen Regent fought so fiercely in her devotion to her brother and children.

He envisions Sansa Stark, filling in her former role as intended future Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. A statue of beauty praised throughout the lands, common folk bragging about her kindness and sincerity onto others. How she treats her sister as an older sibling _should_. With love and kindness. No brutality to be seen, and certainly no hearths or toy knights to bring about a scarring night that would haunt for decades.

They lost their father, mother, and their brothers. And through it all the Starks persevered. Even through hardships they came out tougher and stronger than ever.  

It both warmed and saddened his heart, knowing there was no way to completely shelter both girls from the cruel world outside that sought to tear them apart both mentally and physically.

Wolves may not be the same as dogs but they are descendants. Sandor might not have been cut out from the same litter but seven be damned if he didn’t admit he was loyal to the pack. Loyal to the Starks. _‘If they’ll have me.’_

Arya approaches him, hands interlocked behind her back as she eyes him tediously as though trying to figure out his motives. “You know of the rumors, don’t you? Word travels around fast, though with you who's to know. We all thought you were dead.”

“Wishing I had been.” Sandor grunts in animosity. The self loathing side of him was something was still yet to show change. Self worth only mattered to his own person, never the opinion from others.

But now?

Now, he was scared.

Scared because he cared and he didn’t know what he’d do with himself if they didn’t want him. The only two people he’d ever shown some semblance to of the man behind the alias in glimpses and fragments denying him would be a kick to an already worn and torn stray.

Arya is already equipped to handling his personality when he’s like this, months of traveling the lands together proving that. They were more alike than either cared to admit, both thrown into unruly and unfair positions and predicaments. She knows how he feels but knows well enough not to poke and prod unless she’s willing to accept the repercussions and consequences.

The girl opens her mouth to speak, then falters, rethinking and calculating the right words to say.

“For what it matters...I’m glad you’re alive.” She finally says.

Sandor snorts despite himself. She eyes him, but not out of anger, only disproving his self-assumptions. “You think I’m lying?”

Arya is now smiling. A rare thing seen from the girl unless it’s after killing someone or making a jape at his expense.

He responds plainly. “Didn’t say you were.”

“No, but you’re thinking it. Still think you’re all alone in the world too.” She states.

That much gets Sandor to laugh, jabbing the blade in his palm into the dirt ridden ground beneath. It looks as though his initial plans for sparring went out the window. “Aren’t I? You left me on that hill to die. Took my money too. Don’t start going on about how much you care. Save your shit for some other fools pen.”

Arya is looking down at the blade wedged between them. “I didn’t kill you.” She then looks back up to him, reading aloud her thoughts so plainly that he’s starting to realize he should have known better than to take action the way he did, kidnapping her from the Brotherhood. “I could have. But I didn’t.”

“Aye, you _should_ have. Gave you enough reason to. Another name off your list.” A list he wondered still existed and if it was still growing. Or shortened, depending.

Arya moves closer, a glint in her eyes that looked all too familiar and unfamiliar all at once. Eyes that sought revenge and a look that just stood to no longer care. Everything about it unnerved him, being unable to decipher the intentions and thoughts behind them. There had been a mentioning of her time spent in Braavos to train as a Faceless Man. If that was true then the idea that she could not be read and was just toying with him set him on edge even further. “Do you plan to kill me?” He finally asks.

_‘Just tell me the fucking truth girl. You owe me that much.’_

She says nothing with only a grin spread across her lips, finding his question amusing. Or maybe he’s just too dumb to figure out her real motives.

“Get on with it then.” Sandor urges, goading her. “Kill me and be done with it.”

Arya unfolds her hands out from behind her back and zones her attention in on the swords stacked in the corner, the heavy musk of sweat and blood wafting in the air. The yard is loud with men practicing in preparation for the dead, many of them taking their sparring sessions beyond its intended training, swinging their arms with a brutality meant to sever limbs from their fellow brethren and blows intended to kill. Bloodlust is heavy in the air. He imagines the wolf girl wishing to bore her sharp fangs into his skin, teeth made of steel and tough enough to rip him apart with ease.

A real killer, this one.

“You came back with Jon. Why?”

“Figured I’d rather be fighting for a side that’s living.”

Arya seemed to accept the answer, nodding in approval. She seems to be content enough with the conversation to leave it there, not furthering to probe him for more answers to questions she may have. Making her way for the training yard, the girl stops just sort of the entryway of the armory and turns back to him. “I’ve noticed it, you know. You spent all this time brooding about how worthless you are that when someone else treats you like a normal human being you revert back to the snarling dog you pretend to be. You’re your own dog now, Hound. Don’t forget that. The world can try stopping us from being who we want to be but we’re the ones with the choice. It’s our lives, not theirs. If you plan to live, then  make something of it. And don’t waste it on getting yourself killed by a bunch of dead men.” The faintest hint of a smirk spreads to one side of her face, a playful undertone behind her words. “And the next time I catch you staring at my sister, I’ll keep to that promise of sticking my sword through your eye and out the back of your skull.”


	9. Black Honey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post Season 7.
> 
> The army of the dead has breached The Wall, Jon is returning to Winterfell with the Dragon Queen and her army at their backs, and Cersei has declared war from the South. With Winterfell caught in the middle, Sansa must take action and seize each opportunity that could help to not only save her people, but herself as well. And with long forgotten memories coming back to haunt her, she's not sure if she's ready to face death just yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had more I wanted to add to this chapter but it already took me so long to post it that I figured I'd either skip it or apply it to another chapter. So we'll see what happens. Sorry for the long delay in update.
> 
>  
> 
> Song Chapter:
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C9GTEsNf_GU

###  **SANSA POV**

The roar of a dragon bellows through the night sky as darkness begins to take over, encasing Winterfell in a cloaked shadow save the orange flames that whisked in the cold winter air, creating shapes and forms that danced along the stone walls from each passing individual. The dragon; Drogon, sniffs the air with reverence and shakes its head, confirming the sound was nothing but the bristling of trees it heard.

“Beautiful, isn’t he? Mothers aren’t supposed to have favorites. But some of us can’t help it.”

Boots crunching in the snow and torch in hand, Queen Daenerys rounds the trees in approach. A softer crunch following behind revealing a girl. Her trusted adviser, Missandei.

At the sound of newcomers, Sansa rounds herself in a hurried fashion, but not before fully submerging her body deep into the water where only her head can peer out.

Though it was rude and lacked in propriety, a forwarding move perhaps, it did no use to deter Sansa from doing it any less. For anyone to see the damage inflicted upon her soft flesh, upon the frame of the Wardenness of the North - and should Jon and Daenerys take the throne, Queen of the North - was a fear she was not yet ready to overcome or show others.

Coming eye to eye with the Dragon Queen, Sansa bobs her head in agreement, drawing her attention back up to the massive reptilian beast that had just ascended, embers burning in the belly as it passes over higher up into the sky.

Trying to calculate every reason there could be as to why having either of them for company was necessary and trying coming up with a valid enough reason to somehow shoo the women away without being rude about it, Sansa felt out of luck and found none.

No one would have likely, if at all, come to the Godswood at this hour. Anyone except for Bran maybe. But he had already left, just like Jon. And now it was just her and some stranger from across the sea expected to help fend for a castle that wasn’t even her own home. But the fact Daenerys had sucked in her pride and allowed Jon to take the lead moving South on what she claimed was rightfully hers was baffling. Could it be that this woman truly loved Jon? Not just some facade? Or maybe that wasn’t it at all. Maybe after she helped push back the dead, and should they somehow miraculously win by slim odds, Queen Daenerys could very well just be plotting to take over Winterfell right after. _‘No,’_ She thought. ‘ _She’s a good person. Hot headed, maybe, but compassionate. Her only interest is the throne. Not a castle of lesser value.’_

But for now, in this moment, Sansa wanted to pretend none of this was happening. That she was still a child of ten and two, back when the summers were long and with it the days. She and her closest friend, Jeyne Poole, often found themselves taking a dip in the hot springs of Winterfell within the Godswood. Talking of all things scandalous and innocent, from songs and stories to vengeful ideas in repaying Arya for her constant pranks used on them both. What had ever happened to Jeyne, Sansa did not know. Only that a pang of sadness remained behind in her memory of a friend lost.

She remembers telling Lord Tyrion once while strolling through the gardens in Kings’s Landing how Arya had stuffed sheep's dung into her sheets and sewed it back up, causing the room to stink for days. In that story she had not mentioned Jeyne.

Sansa smiles, remembering the confused look on Tyrion’s face in bafflement from the vulgar words elicited, even if it was only ‘dung.’ But he smiled nevertheless when she spoke of something about herself, reassuring Sansa that not all people were as bad as they were made out to be. That not everyone was Joffrey, and that her entire life wasn’t all suffering. That not everything that came from her, her family, or her being was not some jape to be made at an expense of a traitor's daughter.

The thought provokes another memory, remembering the crude way she spoke to Tyrion only the night before when he had found her and the Hound just past the towers steps, asking after that she return to the evenings dinner as per Jon’s request. The Lannister was only relaying a message and looking out for her. Her behavior was bad-mannered and in poor taste. Sansa would be sure to apologize before all of this was over.

Tyrion had not known any better. The man knew of her strife in King's Landing, but not here. Not unless someone had told him the story beyond that of being wed to Ramsey Bolton. So far, very few knew, aside from the men already stationed at Winterfell during the time of the Bolton reign, seeing the princess of the North only on few occasions, always confined to her quarters. Even her blood family knew scarcely little.

And now that she was free at last, Sansa had never felt so caged in her life. A bird sitting in its own makeshift cage waiting for the appetizing approach of predators.

But a wolf was not meant for a cage, and a cage Sansa refused to remain in any longer. This was her home. No one would keep her from these walls again.

Yet after winter, many numbers in the Seven Kingdoms will be reduced. Meat for the dead's army. She supposed should she die, Winterfell would be a lost cause thereafter as well. A pointless endeavor to hold onto so importantly when the structures would only serve as a base of bloodshed and chaos.

Sansa tensed, trying to force down the doubts and fears. ‘ _If they do not exist, even temporarily, then the thoughts cannot plague me.’_

Forcefully, she attempted to ease her mind and focus again on positive thoughts of the past. Of a loving father with his head still on his shoulders. Of a mother whose smile could chase away the insecurities of a young maiden, reassuring the child that she was young and beautiful, talented and kind. And a handsome older brother, strong and confident, pious in his performance.

The Dragon Queen would hinder those calming thoughts and take away what was left of the already small and slowly fading memories left that could still bring about a small smile to Sansa’s face.

“I apologize if we interrupted you, Lady Stark. Jon had told me of the hot springs beneath Winterfell and promised to show them to me when there was time. But much like our wedding, that did not happen. Regardless, I thought I might take a dip and see just how delightful they are. Hot baths are not the same as the springs that boil beneath the mountains. Much more natural. Soothing.”

Sansa’s first instinct is to tell the woman that she doesn’t care. That all she wants to do is disappear. Instead she schools her expression and smiles curtly. “It’s of no trouble, really. I simply wished for some peace of mind and quiet. I have much to ponder, I suppose.”

Hours ago, Bran had confirmed the majority of all suspicions pointing to the ability of warging and the explanation of particular vivid dreams and each ones meaning. It was all very much to take in and process.

Daenerys and her advisor then approach the pool, discarding clothing on a nearby branch to keep from blowing in the wind. They enter on the side across from Sansa, Daenerys entering with ease while her handmaiden Missandei takes moments before her body can adjust to the waters temperature and fully submerge.

Daenerys looks about the Godswood, her vibrant silvery hair illuminated by the flickering flames of the lamps lining the pathway to the hot springs. There was the saying that red heads were kissed by fire - but Sansa imagined that could not be true. Not when the Targaryens existed, immune to it. “I imagine most the men will be finding themselves tonight either drunk or in some whorehouse. And what are we women to expected to do in time of war? Clean up the messes they leave behind, hoping they come back,” Daenerys speaks to the woman, then turns to Sansa. “Or so the men assume. But neither of us are those type of women, are we? It takes courage to admit fear. And fear is what drives us humans all the same, no matter man or woman.”

“My father used to believe being fearful was the only time one could be brave. He carried many words of wisdom that I ignored in my youth. I was gullible and believed only what I wanted. Believed what the stories told me.” Sansa couldn’t explain the reasoning _why_ she was telling them this. Did she really expect to die, uncaring as to how the last days were lived out? “But they were all lies. Only my father told me the truth of it. I only wish now that I had a chance to hear them all again. To implement his words into actions.”

Sensing her unease, Missandei speaks up, reminding the other two of her silent presence. “I hear he was a good man, My Lady. News of his death traveled to the East shortly after the occurrence. I know little about him but by the way you speak of him I can tell you cared for your father deeply. As did other Northerners, based on the loyalty seen since our arrival.” She smiles sweetly, meaning no ill-will. “Not many can say the same. Slaves are typically sold and branded at young ages with a tendency to be torn away from their family or never given a chance to meet them. To spend so many years with him should be cherished. Even if short lived.”

She knows the woman is right. But that doesn’t make the empty pit any more filled.

Reeling from such thoughts, Sansa takes a deep breath, taking in the crisp winter air and tries to remember Eddard Starks face - smiling down on his children with love and compassion. A true Northern Lord.

Lord Stark would have made a much better king than Robert Baratheon ever had. Spending more time whoring and drinking than actually ruling, simply expecting others to do it for him. A poor father figure he was, leading Sansa to believe it as reasoning for why Joffrey was the way he was. Coddled by a malevolent woman and ignored by a man built on pride and lust alone. A terrible match made with an even worse end result of children.

No, that wasn’t true.

Myrcella and Tommen were good children. They were of the few whose hearts were built on good intentions not deserving of their fates.

But life was not fair. It was not some song.

The world was built on lies and chaos.

Daenerys eyes Sansa meticulously, a queer look disappearing from her lips. With her attention caught, the woman moves within the water, drifting closer to Sansa until she is at arm's length, eyes wandering to where the rim of the water met flesh. “You’re hurt,” she states.

Looking down at the conflict of interest, Sansa’s face hardens like steel at the realization she had lifted herself unconsciously from the water just enough to reveal the scars and scabs lining shoulders and collarbone. Quick to cover her modesty, Daenerys is fast and upon her in seconds, grasping the wardennesses wrist and pulling it away from her frame, the extended arm exposed in layers of markings. “Your former husband, I am to presume,” she says tersely, frowning.

“I had a handmaiden once when I had been sold to my first husband like some cattle. My brother hired her on as his own personal whore, but she served for many other purposes. The woman taught me the Dothraki tongue. And how to please a husband who was feared for his brutality. Gods, the man terrified me in the beginning-”

Sansa all but scoffed. “I thank you Your Grace for you input but I know how to ‘please’ my husband.” Joffrey was pleased. Pleased by the idea of having his Kingsguard beat and strip her for someone else’s battles and any other reason he could think of that displeased him at the time that would warrant her harm. And Ramsey...He had been pleased enough as well. Pleased by raping and beating her each night he felt like, hoping to break her and find satisfaction in the fact that even after everything, he did not tire or grow bored. And now both were dead. And here she was.

“Pleasing is one thing. But to _love_ is another,” Daenerys continued on, as if not hearing Sansa’s protest. “Khal Drogo never harmed me - merely only rough in nature. But when we finally communicated, opened our hearts to each other in understanding, love was formed.” The woman smiles queerly. “The handmaiden had told me that love came from the eyes. I scarcely believed her myself, thinking that my fate every night was to be taken and ridden like some horse whenever he liked. But I am Daenerys Targaryan. I am the dragon. I was meant for greater things than a _khaleesi_ to a _Khal_. And beyond all the love I harbored for him, he would have only held me back.”

“Love? A fairytale told to us as children to help us sleep better at night,” Sansa responds bitterly, glaring out into the night. “Love is as scarce in this world as there is kindness.”

Finally submerged after minutes of wading the water in caution, Missandei eyes the sky as well, captivated by the vibrant twinkling of stars cast over them in glistening shimmers reflected off the battlements array of light. “Love is what carries on even after death. It strengthens us. Keeps us going. Time allows us to forget, but love is forged through something stronger, I think. The people who serve under Queen Daenerys chose her because she offered hope and freedom. Her people love her. That bond is greater than the fear placed by the masters we were previously sworn to follow.”

She feels a deep sigh barrel through her like the crashing of a boat against the docks, seasoning herself to retaliate appropriately so as not to come off as an enemy even if she was merely troubled by personal turmoil not pertaining to the current subject. This time she tries another approach, trying not to sound so bitter and disheartening in matters. “I have heard many things concerning her deeds across the sea and am in no way questioning her valor. I simply fail to understand why this is of any concern to me.”

“You may very well be right. It might not be. But what I think our Queen is trying to convey is that...Maybe it is for the best your husband is gone. It means you are free. Free to do as you want and take control of your life. We know of the people's choice to elect Jon Sn-, _Targaryen,_ as their King, but you were the one who united them. They came for _you_. You have the love of your people. And better yet you still have a living family. A family who loves you.” Missandei quips. “Not many of us can say the same. It is easier to count our misfortunes and even harder to count our blessings. All that matters now is making the best of each situation.”

 _Maybe death would have been better than this_ , she thought. Going back, Sansa began to recall each life threatening moment where that could have been the end. What changes would have been made if she hadn’t been around? Would Arya have ever come back to reclaim Winterfell? Or Jon, had she not convinced him? Then there was Bran. Another story entirely, doubtful there was much left of him behind hazed crystal eyes. And if the Walkers came on the morn, none of their titles would matter. Making the best of a situation wouldn’t matter either.

All that mattered now was a fight between living or dying. The living vs. the dead. And death always collected its toll one way or another in the end.


	10. Slow Dancing In The Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post Season 7.
> 
> The army of the dead has breached The Wall, Jon is returning to Winterfell with the Dragon Queen and her army at their backs, and Cersei has declared war from the South. With Winterfell caught in the middle, Sansa must take action and seize each opportunity that could help to not only save her people, but herself as well. And with long forgotten memories coming back to haunt her, she's not sure if she's ready to face death just yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A new POV chapter! It was a bit different to write but I enjoyed making the piece nonetheless. 
> 
> When I heard this song the first time it was released it made me think of SanSan. With Sandors inner turmoil slowly surfacing it somewhat fit for this chapter especially since he’s still in that in between of having low self worth of his past self vs. his newfound care of how others treat him thanks to his time with Brother Ray. 
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K3Qzzggn--s&start_radio=1

**TYRION POV**

 

Multiple jokes over the years had gone in one ear and out the other over time. Some had been reiterated many times over while others were clever and new enough. He gave kudos to insults where it was deserving while on the other hand taking mental notes of each face passing the words. Tyrion wanted to say he was used to it. And he was for a time. And then he wasn’t. And yet other times he was again. His mailed plate of armor built by self flaws could only benefit so much whereas other times he did not have the patience for it.

Today he lost a good majority of that patience.

And he desperately needed strong wine.

It wasn’t the comments referring to him that got a rise out of Tyrion. Everyone liked to make fun of the little man; the dwarf. It was nothing new. But after the experience as Hand to not only one King, but a Queen, Tyrion expected to receive a bit more than whispered insults of tales being true pertaining to his natured well being. And on top of that the comments were almost always about Queens. Or Princesses.

Tyrion shook his head. It would not bode well to listen on them. There may have been a time he’d partake in listening to these delicious rumors regardless of if he knew they were true despite alluding fantasies that took flight from endless possible scenarios, but the time and energy for that was was well set in the past. He was beyond juicy secrets and listening in on tales of what goes on in the sheets behind closed doors when it came to royals.

He was not the same man as he once was. That much was true. He had only wished others saw that as well. But men judge, false or true, it made no matter. The words came and went just as he as he strode on short hobbled legs with two Unsullied guards towing along on either side.

Snow had already departed along with his warging crippled brother which meant the only ones left were the two Stark girls and Queen Daenerys. Speaking of whom…

“Have either of you happened to see our Queen this fine evening, I dare ask?”

Tyrion had known of Daenery’s newfound particular hunger and the need to sate those personal needs. But with her fresh meat gone with an expectancy to come across green fire and fry while she herself froze away here in Winterfell, it became a curiosity as to how long this new alliance would end up lasting. If it was anything like her last lovers or husbands then not long very long at all, he presumed. And daresay hoped.

One soldier shook his head while the second responded. “She was last seen speaking with Jorah the Andal in the Great Hall.”

“Ah, yes, very good. Thank you.”

They made their way in the direction, passing by soldiers and people in the halls, few as there were. The fresh news breaking out that morning about the close proximity of the dead marching beyond the wall had set people into a flight or fight mode. Others fled while given the opportunity for a chance at life while others chose to stay behind and die fighting. And somehow Tyrion’s trust in his Queen led him here, in a situation of war where he could very well perish.

Tyrion was reminded then of the battle at the Whispering Woods against Robb Stark’s army. How he was assigned head of the vanguard. And there was the Battle of the Black Water as well. Even then he was forced to fight. But yet both times he made it out alive, somehow someway. And in the front lines no less!

This time would be no different. Put a weapon in his hand and he would do his part just as the others, scared as he may be. He did not plan to die on the morrow.

 

The Great Hall was stocked with people, not as many as the night before but still a large enough amount to fill in chairs. Most men were drunk, loud and obnoxious, suckling on their last meal the same as one would a woman's teat.

It wasn’t too hard to spot Mormont. The table he sat at looked like a bunch of misfits one would not expect to be conversing with one another. Among them were Davos Seaworth lost in conversation with Gendry Waters. To their right was the Wildling Tormund Gianstbane, trying to drink three different dothraki under the table. And to the very end of table sitting alone was the Hound, a mug in his hand and brooding over who knew what. At this point Tyrion assumed that was a permanent quirk of his. Veering his attention back to the matter at hand, he then approaches the former Lord of Bear Island while catching the attention of the others at the table from his entry. “Jorah Mormont. Good evening. I was informed you may know the current whereabouts of our Queen considering you were the last one she spoke to.”

Jorah sags his shoulders, leans back and looks up from his food to the dwarf. “Aye, we spoke. But that was well over an hour ago. Last I heard she was wandering the castle.”

“Hot springs,” says the Dothraki, his common tongue broken but still understandable.

“Same as the wolf princess,” snickered the second, drunk and swaying.

 _Lady Stark_ , he assumed the man meant.

 _“Maybe if our Queen conquers this stronghold we’ll all get a turn at the red headed bitch.”_ The Dothraki then adds, speaking in his common tongue to his other two companions. They all three laugh and cheered to each other in unison, clinking mugs as the liquid drizzled down the sides. Though Tyrion could not understand them, he figured it was some crude comment about one of the women, if not both.

“This is not Essos. Pillaging, raping and enslaving is past us in this new world Queen Daenery’s has built,” Jorah explained to them. “And that includes keeping your hands to yourself with the other highborns.”

 _Ah, so that’s what this is about_ , Tyrion reasons. Though his Valyrian was still a bit broken his Dothraki was practically non-existent. Fortunate that Mormont knew and could interpret whereas he could not.

The first makes to stand, smirks, and juts his hand in front of him raising the alcohol and pointing it at Jorah. “Dothraki are more man than your lot. We take and conquer. We follow our _Khaleesi_ , not some foreign bitch. When the fake dead men come, I will mount her first.” He snickers. His comrades shove his shoulder in agreement.

Just then the Great Halls doors open, the Lady of the house entering followed by her sword shield tailing only behind. She scans the room until she finds her person of interest. When her eyes fall on Tyrion, she walks over to approach him. The Dothraki see this, eyeing her up and down but otherwise keeping their comments to themselves. Or at least between them in a language hardly anyone else can understand. 

“My Lord,” she says tonelessly, giving no hint as to any care to see his face after so long, regardless of their brief encounter last night. Tyrion admittedly felt a little hurt by such coldness. That is until a small smile graced its way to her lips and changing her attitude with it. “I wished to apologize for my rude behavior the other evening and hope to invite you to my solar. We have much to catch up on I imagine.”

Tyrion tilted his head, caught off guard, then blinked and smiled. “Lady Sansa, how courteous of you. And forthcoming, I dare say. I was looking for Queen Daenery’s, but I suppose matters can wait." He was eager to rid himself of this headache and thankful for the opportunity. "Come, let us go. I’m in desperate need of a drink. Do you still not partake, my Lady?” He asks.

Sansa smiled, genuinely even, he thought. It was reminiscent to the day of their wedding. And now it became a small jape shared among them. Tyrion could already predict the next statement before she spoke the words.

“When I have to. Though I suppose tonight would be one of those nights, wouldn’t it?” The tease was evident in her tone.

“Yes. I suppose it would be, seeing as this might be the last night of our lives. Who is to say really?” Tyrion agreed.

Lady Stark proceeds to lead them away from the table and back towards the exit-way of the hall. Tyrion abruptly stops before they make it to the doors and turns back, instead striding back to the table. “Wait one moment.” He reaches to grab one of the full unused pitchers to bring along. When he glances up he is met with a piercing ireful gaze directed straight at him. If he had thought the man gruesome looking before, Tyrion decided he prefered the Hound’s brooding look instead. Yet the man said nothing and only glared at him from the end of the table, mug set down in front of him.

Tyrion decided then to simply ignore it and not give in to any drunken threats, harmless or not.

With Lady Sansa still waiting for him at the entryway and not wishing to keep her waiting any longer, he finally catches up and offers out his arm in courtesy, which she then takes. He guides them out of the boisterously loud room, grinning sheepishly like a fool at the thought that comes to his head.

_Though the circumstances are not the same I still somehow end up with alcohol in one hand and a beautiful woman on the other. Fancy my odds._


	11. From Gold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post Season 7.
> 
> The army of the dead has breached The Wall, Jon is returning to Winterfell with the Dragon Queen and her army at their backs, and Cersei has declared war in the South. With Winterfell caught in the middle, Sansa must take action and seize each opportunity that could help to not only save her people, but herself as well. And with long forgotten memories coming back to haunt her, she's not sure if she's ready to face death just yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song Chapter:
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2dKYs_j4J0k

**SANSA POV**

 

“You abandoned me on Joffreys wedding day. Fled and left me to be the pin of blame!” Tyrion takes a long drag from his mug, licks his lips then huffs and reconsiders, “Though I must admit, I never once thought it may have been you. Your heart was kind and good. You were no murderer then, or so I should have hoped. Now? Perhaps not. But for good reasons I will not pass judgement.”

“And why is that, My Lord?” Sansa eyes him meticulously.

“Because, you have always been smarter than you’ve let on. I said so myself to your brother not too long ago in fact. Though we agree it _is_ starting to show. Which is both good and bad. You are finally showing assertiveness. You are a player of the great game which means your own survival isn’t the only thing of importance. You care for your people. Why, I’ve only been here two days and it has already shown. In the Great Hall for instance, you knew the repercussions of informing the Lords and Ladies of the peril they face on the morrow. Yet you were the one to face them, not your brother. They respect you. Some may even favor you more than Jon. Queen Sansa! It has a nice ring to it, I dare say.” At that the little man smiled.

Sansa stared into the hearth, soaking in his words like a sponge and thinking them over. The glow of orange and red flickered in the icy blue hues of her eyes, giving them life. “And the bad?”

He sighs, thinking of the most appropriate wording, taping his fingers along the polished wood. His advice was similar to what he had given the dragon queen. But this was also an entirely different woman altogether. “You want them to love you, yes. But they do not fear you, like they do Daenery’s.”

“I fed my late husband to his starved dogs. And I sentenced Petyr Baelish to death in that very same hall.  And yet I am still looked upon as a woman made of ivory?”

“Yes, while that may be true...There are still those who remained prior to this...Those who know of your...absence.”

“Ramsey locked me in that room nearly every day and night for over a year! My face was scarcely seen, yet what did anyone do for the Lady of Winterfell except make false rumors of my loyalty to the North based on the knowledge of marrying to not one, but two enemies of my house. Lest I show them the rest of me perhaps they would change their opinion and think again. Everything I have done I’ve done for the sake of my House. For my family, for Winterfell, and for the North,” she spits out distastefully, raising herself from her seat and pacing. “Do they think I wanted these things to happen to me? Of course not. Both marriages were agreed upon _for_ me, not _by_ me.”

“And what a delight Joffrey had turned out to be.” Tyrion drawled with sarcasm, taking another sip of his cup only to realize it was empty. Already standing, Sansa moves to the table to pour them both another glass already having finished hers minutes before.

Tyrion seemed to have taken note of this for he decided to make a comment on it. “You’ve begun drinking to help cope, haven’t you?”

Sansa stills, confirming his suspicions. “So does Cersei. _Did_ , I should say...I seem to have almost forgotten that important detail.”

“And why is it she no longer partakes…?”

He purses his lips in a mischievous wicked smile. The alcohol seemed to have finally done its deed. “Cersei is with child, meaning she cannot drink. Not now, anyways.”

Midway to her lips, Sansa halts her cup from taking a swig, lowering it at the news. “Pregnant? How are you to be sure? We’ve received no news of this. Not from anyone else at the summoning of the Dragon Pit nor by rumors or letters.”

“I suppose she wishes to keep it a secret knowing full well the consequences. Should her enemies discover this they can use it against her. Though the same could be said for Daenerys. Only few know, and we hope to keep it that way. For now at least.”

Tyrion’s eyes grew distant as he gazed into the same hearth Sansa had been transfixed by only moments ago. There was a longing there. A sadness of some sort. It was unlike the man to sound so down, despite his usual cheeriness accommodated by sarcastic comments and wits. “You love her?” She asks, lowering herself into the chair across from him. “This Queen of yours?”

He thinks on it a moment. But his long drawn silence is all the answer Sansa needs to confirm her suspicion.

Softly he asks, languidly looking into his cup, “What is a man to do when the woman he loves is betrothed to another man?”

Somehow the idea of Tyrion asking advice from her of all people was unsuspecting. She was likely the worst person to ask, never having experienced it herself. Once a long time ago she had thought she was deeply in love with her prince. Charming, handsome, and gallant. All of which were false lies proven in the end.

“It depends. Does she love you back?” She spoke the question though was certain she had already known the answer.

“No. At least not in the way I wish she reciprocated it,” he slurs. It was a wonder how many cups it usually took for him to loosen his tongue. Prior that evening Sansa had invited Tyrion to join her in her Solar to apologize for how he was treated the first night of his arrival and to make amends for the past. But it also meant he was much more open to non-political discussions. The man may have stemmed from the Lannister family but he was far beyond any of the personality types of the others. He was kind and kept to good intentions. Well, as best as any dwarf could with the reputation he had been given and he himself earned. Somehow she wasn’t surprised in his fondness of this Dragon Queen. She was beautiful, no doubt. And if she was anything like her people praised her as, Sansa could come to understand why Tyrion yearned for her.

“Does she know of your intentions?”

He shakes his head feasibly, “Rather that she did...she would still never avert her gaze towards me in that way, let alone _desire_ me. So instead I sit here and drink, miserable in secrecy from a love interest I can tell no one of for nothing will ever become of it.” He takes another swig and chuckles with pity. “I fear the only two enjoyable drinking companions I once had are no longer an option in these times of war. The first, dead by my own hands, and the second fights for my sister now.”

“And yet you told me?”

“Ah, yes. That is because I trust you not to tell my secret. And I won’t tell yours either.” Tyrion remarks, raising his cup. She narrows her eyes at him, seeking out a lie but finding none in his expression, drunk as the dwarf may be. Something tells her this isn’t just some bluff. But what secret could he possibly know of that she didn’t?

Tyrion takes a double and quirks his head to the side, a soft snort eliciting from his nose. “ _Oh._ You have no idea, do you? I see the gears in your mind working. Trying to figure out what it is I know.”

One thing Sansa admired about the man was his keen sense of character judgement and wit. Especially his play on words. The man was able to over talk Joffrey many times without receiving backlash. He had guts. He wouldn't be afraid to blackmail her should the secret he claims to know ends up exposed. Tyrion Lannister was a cunning man, just like his father Tywin. He knew methods to play or manipulate people. Fortunately the half man’s usage of said power had been shown with meaningful intention so far up until this point.

She took a breath and inhaled calmly. There was nothing to be afraid of. Not of him at least.

“It was curious to me at first. I thought perhaps I was looking into it wrong. That there was nothing really going on with you since day one of arriving. But the more I thought about it the more confused I became. I thought to myself how impossible it would be, how ridiculous it even sounds thinking it. But then I put the pieces together.” With his glass finished, he refills it and pushes the pitcher towards her. Sansa has already had two cups and began feeling the effects of the alcohol soaking in. Regardless, she remained stoic and unrelenting in letting her demeanor fall by not allowing herself to look more vulnerable.

“Tell me this then, Lady Sansa - how is it that a former Kingsguard soldier is seen sporting a Kingsguard cloak out in the open and no one bats an eye? Yet that same man was caught cornering you just the night before, not donning the cloak at the time. Nor was he seen arriving with it on. He could have worn it at any time to keep from this weather. But he didn’t. Not until today that is. And why is that? I thought to myself, why on earth would this man _want_ to wear a badge that represented the very thing he told to go fuck? No. A man like Clegane isn’t the type to suddenly feel sentimental over the very thing he’s already spit on.”

The nervousness surfaces through Sansa like a wrecking ball. She realized now that she should have been more careful. Had not thought of the possibility that anyone would recognize it as being anything but a regular cloak - what with the Northerners staying North, few visiting Kingslanding and remembering the court and all involved, let alone what they wore and looked like.

“But then I seemed to recall a time when _you_ had his Kingsguard cloak. The very same day Joffrey had you striped and beaten in court. Yet I couldn’t remember him wearing it any other time after that. So now I ask you this...Why does he have it?”

Sansa stares into the open. Thinking, calculating. “...It brought me protection. Which I hope will do the same for him.”

“Protection.” He deadpans, almost not believing. “But you admit that you kept it and gave it to him?”

“Yes. I did.”

Tyrion grew silent, lost in deep thought. Sansa knew him as an intuitive person but for him to notice such a subtle small thing was surprising with all the other important matters being on the forefront of everyone’s mind.

“Clegane is not known for liking anything or anyone. Aside from perhaps drinking, whoring and killing. Which is why I find the fact that _he_ kept it to be the most curious thing about this situation. Unless of course, it now had sentimental value to it making it worth keeping.”

“It’s just a cloak.” Sansa rationalized, giving away nothing of the newfound knowledge attained just this afternoon.

“Is it? I think in his eyes it’s much more than that. I can tell by the look in your eyes that you’re trying to hide that you know and agree. Why, my suspicions were only confirmed not even an hour ago.”

An hour ago? What could he have meant by that? She had not seen the man since this morning and even then it was from a far off distance. “I’m not sure I understand what you mean, My Lord. The Hound means little to me. He was Joffrey’s sworn shield and he showed me kindness where my betrothed did not. That is all. There is nothing more there.” ‘ _Even if his kindness was expressed through mixed signals.’_ “The cloak is just a piece of clothing.”

“Is that so? Well, I suppose we’ll see about that soon enough.”

 

Sansa walked along the ramparts unsettled. The castle was in a bustle and she worried she would get a scarce amount of sleep from it. Not that she really intended to sleep anyhow. Being on guard was the most liable choice and keeping an attentive mind was necessary. Best to be prepared than startled should something come up. As her legs carried her along, Sansa came to an abrupt stop. Body going rigid, a cool moist drizzle ran almost subtly down her thighs. At the realization, the woman froze. Could it be? Right here, right now?

She wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry.

 _‘I’m not pregnant. Thank the Gods!’_ Sansa could scarcely contain herself, feeling overjoyed and gripping the sides of the snow covered stone to keep herself from stumbling.

The fear had tugged at the back of her mind for some time now. Being trapped in that room alone for months on end with no way out implied there was no way of sneaking in moon tea. And without moon tea...her chances of miscarriage or failing to conceive were incredibly low.

But now she felt liberated. Sansa made way to her room with purposeful strides, a smile spreading across her lips wider than she could remember ever making before. Just as Joffrey had cast her aside for a new bride, she was fortunate now that she was not cursed with a Bolton child. Even with odds against them, there were still small things to be thankful for.

Missandei’s words reflected in her mind and for once the advice heeded had carried through.

That evening Sansa counted her blessings instead of her misfortunes. She was all the happier for it.


	12. Out Getting Ribs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post Season 7.
> 
> The army of the dead has breached The Wall, Jon is returning to Winterfell with the Dragon Queen and her army at their backs, and Cersei has declared war in the South. With Winterfell caught in the middle, Sansa must take action and seize each opportunity that could help to not only save her people, but herself as well. And with long forgotten memories coming back to haunt her, she's not sure if she's ready to face death just yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a much delayed chapter update and for that I apologize. I was going to break this chapter into two but I knew if I did it would take me longer to get around to posting them. I expect to be wrapping up this fanfiction soon. Season 8 is coming up in less than two months and I know myself well enough to know that my inspiration for my fiction piece will falter because of it. 
> 
> From this point on I'd like to point out that I don't think any form of real intimacy is to be expected from them but I definitely think that there is a lot of underlining layers and depth between them that needs to be worked out. I don't expect much but maybe this chapter will help others get those frustrations out in an expression we wont likely see in the show. 
> 
> Song Chapter:
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MKYRpEJ21Fg

**SANSA POV**

 

A hush fell over Winterfell despite the prior hustle and bustle in the earlier hours of the day. Men guarded the ramparts with flaming torches in hand blazing nearly every ten feet in separation. Every man and boy was dressed in armor, wrapped in a coating of thick leather and furs to keep them warm from the frost. The snows had come down harder and the eerie silence left everyone in an unsettled temperament.

Sansa should have left, she knew. It ought to have been her turning the Northman to safety, not staking out here in a castle destined to fall. But either choice would have ended in bloodshed. In the end it didn’t matter. Winterfell was the safest place for her to be than on the road. She willingly chose to be here for a reason. She kept faith in her men. The Northman were known for their loyalty, a different bunch than those in the South, West, and East. But despite these differences she still could not place her trust within these individuals entirely, unsure of who could be bought or persuaded. How quick they were to change loyalties when Jon had left upon the call of Daenerys Targaryen from Dragonstone. Should something happen, would they think to turn on her too? Then there was Lord Baelish, finding it easy to manipulate those within these walls with the promise of coin and safety within a cloak of secrecy. Even with his absence there was no telling what spies Cersei or any of the other houses planted, secretly taking arms against them just as the Frey’s and Bolton’s had done to Robb and her mother.

These dark thoughts left her unsettled throughout the evening. But none could compare to the irrelevant fear pinning at the back of her brain telling her that she would likely be destined to die on the morrow.

She had planned for it with intentions, deciding that Winterfell would be the only acceptable place she could truly die in peace. Home, where her happiest memories still existed. Everyone else excluding her who took arms to the war would take up the same fate, but they would die in the field with hope and with a cause and something worth fighting for, while Sansa had only her home and her family to fight for. But most importantly,  she needed to live for herself. She was Sansa Stark of Winterfell. She was a direwolf at heart just like her house sigil. A girl grown into a woman, learning from the most adverse people through experience and hardships, still left standing where others have since returned to the ground.

Yes. She could be brave through this too, she knew.

 

Sighing deeply, Sansa rolled herself over in bed and stared with her eyes transfixed on the blank slated wall ahead. Too many thoughts plagued her restless mind that she had no time to calm all at once. The men would face war tomorrow on the battlefield while she hid within Winterfell’s walls and fought the mind games that waged war inside her own head. She almost regretted to think that she continued doubting herself thinking that she was incapable of self survival without Lord Baelish’s teachings in the presence. But she was wrong.

She could not doubt herself here. Not now. Not  again. Petyr Baelish learned and self-taught. Sansa could learn to do the same.

Giving up, she threw herself upright from the bed and leaned over, taking a deep and even breath, rubbing her temple back and forth between fingers. It felt too claustrophobic in this room. Too much like being in a cage. Standing and coming to a decision the woman tightened her night shift around her bodice and threw over her shoulders a thick fur cloak made of bearskin, not bothering to fully clothe considering the plan was not to stay out for long. Brienne had insisted that Sansa bring her along despite the deliberate request to be alone. But the woman would not be swayed and in no time they made their way to the Godswood where she sat for well over an hour despite the agreement until the frost bit at her nose and turned her skin a pale white, her warm breath heavy in the air.

“Might it be we go back, Lady Sansa? We have been out here for some time. I don’t feel safe with you being so far from the safety of your room.”

Sansa chuckled lightly. Brienne could not possibly understand the woman’s train of thought, that it did not matter where she may be. The _Others_ would come and no amount of thickness from a wooden door would stop them. But here she felt the closest to her family. Her father often spending his time sharpening his blade Ice near the hot springs, watching the steam curl around the glistening steel and enjoying the silence provided by the woods.The same emotional attachment could be felt for Sansa as she stared upon the white face carved into the tree that had lived in this very spot for hundreds of years. Though even through prayer, would the Gods even answer? Would she live to see another day? Would anyone?

“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” Sansa answered with a reverie. She lifted herself up, turned to her sworn shield and guided the way back with the large woman trailing behind closely.

Pulled from her thoughts, Brienne spoke up as they walked, her tone turning serious. “Lady Sansa...Forgive me for speaking out of turn but I...I want you to know that I have been happy to serve you and that I will continue to do so protecting you with my life. I will not allow any harm to come to you. My sword and shield is yours and I intend to keep that oath.”

 _Yes. The oath. I’d almost forgotten._ “This promise you made...It was intended to keep both my mothers daughters safe, was it not?” Sansa replied, her eyes very serious. “And is it not by law that as my sworn shield, you are to do as I say and command?”

“Yes, of course My Lady,” Brienne nodded, hand on the hilt of the sword strapped to her side. “Whatever you ask.” By the notion of quick display it was easy to read that Brienne assumed Sansa intended for her to kill someone. While that was it, it was not from the same context she had likely presumed. The thought of asking another had surfaced, his denial to the request a jab to her person. But this woman was sworn by law to do as she was told. Brienne would not deny this.

“Then keep your oath. Protect Arya and let no harm come to her. That is what I ask of you.”

Brienne appeared surprised by the request but only straightened her back, the grip on the pommel of her sword tightening. “I will defend you both no matter what. You have my word.”

“Good.” Sansa replied, deciding to discuss no more on the matter. Once they had returned the both bid the other a goodnight, Sansa returning to her room while Brienne continued her patrol of the hallway that lead down to the other end, perching herself outside of Arya’s door on a wooden chair.

 

Stepping into the room, Sansa shut the door behind her  and began to remove her coat, stopping midway down once she noticed a distorted shadow illuminating itself off the stone walls. She turned to see the hulking form of a man sitting on her bed, eyes cast down to the floor and hands folded together with a dreadful aura cast about. Somehow she suspected the man might show himself again.

“The night I went to your chambers, the Battle of the Blackwater, I found a doll on your night stand.” The tone in his voice wavered like a man lost at war and on the brink of defeat.

No matter what the man's intentions were for coming here she knew deep down in her core that he would not hurt her. She no longer needed reminding when there was certainty. Sansa steeled herself and calmly evened her breathing. There was no danger here.

She walked until she stood at his feet.

 _How is it that he could chastise me for not looking at him all those times before but now he cannot even look me in the eye himself? Of all the fear the realm has for him and somehow in my presence he’s reduced to acting like a scolded child unable to meet the eye of their parent._ The thought disappeared however when another theory then appeared to her.

_He has no one else to seek out for solace. And he’s scared._

From what exactly, Sansa could not say for certain what with the many possibilities there were. Regardless she decided to give him the benefit of the doubt on the off chance that she was incorrect. He’d be allowed an explanation before conclusions were jumped to. Though what other reason could there be showing up in her chambers, knowing full well the impropriety of a highborn and a soldier being seen together alone? Why risk it? What was the reason in desperation behind sneaking in despite all the consequences? The man could have had his head removed by soldiers waiting on command and order if only she gave the demand. Yet he risked it despite having to know these odds. Perhaps he felt more emboldened after she had come to him first the night prior. Regardless, he was here now, and she was uncertain as to what it was he wanted. She wondered if Brienne was still standing guard outside her sisters room or if she decided to patrol and stand post outside her own door. If she had, would she hear them from inside the bedroom?

“I never told you about how I came about these scars, have I?”

Still he would not look at her.

The Hound wiped his nose with the cloth beneath his armored arm, sniffed, then went on. “I was six when it happened. Just like you; bullied, tormented, family taken away from me without the willpower to stop it.” He paused, seemingly calculating his next words. “...I used to believe in the stories and the songs. Same as the Gods. But the Gods never answered my prayers and soon enough I gave up on them too. I couldn’t rely on anyone but myself. Promises were worth shit. The only one who could protect me was myself. When it came to Gregor...I learned quick. Quicker than any six year old boy should have.” He scoffed, “And it was all over some stupid toy doll.”

So what Lord Baelish said years ago was true. The Mountain burned the Hound’s face when they were children, all over a single toy knight. “I heard the tale once but did not presume to know it for true,” she answered unbiased.

The Hound laughed then sneered. “Your sister seemed to have already known the story too. Should have known better, no ones secrets are safe in King’s Landing. They spread the tale and mocked me behind my back no doubt.” He wasn’t drunk but most certainly tipsy at least by the sounds of it. “The entire court must have thought me a joke each day—”

“That’s not true and you know it,” she cuts him off sternly. His hair cascaded over his eyes but it did nothing to stop Sansa from boring her gaze down upon him. The man could hide from her all he wanted but she refused to hide again. She would meet him eye to eye and not turn away, darkness be damned. It had to be in the light. He needed to understand her growth. See her for what she had become and end this notion of thinking her a fragile girl.

Sandor Clegane no longer scared her. Sansa finally understood him, more than he may have realized about himself. He bore to her his opened heart in secrecy which was more than she could have imagined to explore from such a crude and violent driven man. And yet if the explanations were all true and she had been in actuality warging into his mind unknowingly through intertwined dreams then it proved that the Hound had a hidden side to him kept entirely secret to the rest of the world.  The gestures he showed of knighthood despite his disbelief on the matters proved his facade as well.

“I felt sorry for you when I had learned the tale, regardless of the fear you tried to instill in me. But then I had seen you, the real you, showing itself in small subtle ways each time you helped or saved me. You gained your own strength, survived King’s Landing in whatever way you could given the circumstances. It shaped you into the man you are today. You did things, terrible things, to _survive_. Not because you wanted to do them, but because the choices you made were at the expense of keeping yourself alive at the cost of your own morals. No. You are one of the strongest men I know.” He raised his head at that, his look inscrutable and piercing. “Your advice back then in fact is one of the few reasons why I am still here.”

Standing to his feet Sansa was briefly reminded of the man’s imposing height, the top of her head reaching his neck as he leered down at her. His eyes held a mixture of conflicting emotions. This was not at all like the night before when they spoke in the dark with only a dim amount of light to see the outline of each other’s frame. They were face to face, eye to eye. His look was intimidating, just as she remembered it to be. But there was now a softness behind them, a vulnerability of a man lost, confused... 

“Why did you give me the cloak?” he asks, the piece of fabric crumpled in the fist of his right hand dangling next to his thigh.

Sansa showed no hesitation to answer. “Because it was not mine to keep.”

“Yet you kept it.” His temperament rose.

“I did. And now it is yours once again to use as you see fit.”

The Hound was not buying what was being fed to him, as vague of the truth as it was. “You expect me to be content with that? The Kingsguard _beat_ you, or did your head get so knocked around that you’ve forgotten that? I’m no better than those fuckers who call themselves knights,” he shook the cloak in front of her face. “And there’s no good reason you should have had this. So stop avoiding the question and tell me the truth. Why did you keep it?”  

Though he barked crude remarks Sansa did not let them intimidate her. “It brought me comfort.”

“Don’t lie to me girl,” he strained to hide the emotion behind his words, refusing to believe someone else would find comfort in him, as alone as he was and felt. The Hound was torn upon believing in false hope, knowing the world to be built upon liars and schemers. He was in the right to mistrust her. Sansa had learned from the best after all. But now with Baelish dead she no longer had a master manipulator to guide her and have her back should she fall.

“Is that not the same reason why you wore it today?” She asked, turning the question back on him. “You hated the idea of knights and Kings Landing both. So why?” Sandor Clegane’s breathing heightened, trying to calm his unsettled nerves. The mans features were much more prominent to see now up close. His hair was no longer as unkept and ragged as before, his beard a thick patch scattered about his jaw and his eyes lacking in its former overbearing anger. What had saddened him so? What had brought this man to such a state of mind she wondered? She had no hint as to what had become of him after he and Arya had separated.

He glared, his burned lip twitching in the corner of his mouth.

“Do I frighten you so much that you cannot even tell me the truth?” Sansa both asked and accused boldly.

The Hound didn’t like the tables being turned back on him. But something about the way his lips moved hinted that perhaps he may have liked the challenge in her voice. No man dared to face him on the field, but on the play of words could Sansa outwit Sandor Clegane? Or would each facade be seen through and each truth be accused of as a lie? One could not say for sure.

“I do, don’t I?” How amusing it was that the odds were reversed. But now Sansa felt emboldened. Empowered even. What was there left to lose come the morrow? Die today or by morning. It didn’t matter. “What is it most about me you’re scared of?” She stepped forward, invading his space just like the other night when they were cloaked in shadow.

The Hound deeply inhaled and exhaled shakily, all composure near gone out the window. His fists bundled at his sides, fingers chafing against one another. There were questions on his tongue that never met the open, leaving Sansa to wonder whether she would ever understand the man for true.

“Are you the one who killed Joffrey? They say it was poison - a woman’s weapon. Or did the little bird only escape her cage to leave the lions to tear each other up?”

Of all questions to ask, he redirects the subject to this one. “No.” She answered truthfully. “I was used unknowingly as an aid in killing him but it was not me who planned it. The blame for that belongs to Olenna Tyrell and Petyr Baelish.”

Just hearing the old names of faces unseen in what felt like a decade ago left the Hound gritting his teeth in remembrance. “Two peas in a pod I’d say, manipulative swines that they are. Didn’t think you’d have it in you to kill someone, though last I’d heard you fed your Lord husband to his dogs if that’s to be true. How did you escape?”

“When my Lord Husband was accused of murdering the King at the time and carried the blame, I fled with a former knight named Ser Dontos who had promised to take me away from King's Landing. But it was a trick set up by Lord Baelish. He killed Ser Dontos and we set sail for the Eerie right after. I remained in The Vale until he sold me to the Bolton’s in Winterfell, marrying me off to Roose Boltons bastard son, Ramsey.”

“But now your former Lord husband has returned, hasn’t he?” There was no attempt to hide the over evident sneer and distaste as his lips twitched at the spoken words. Sandor Clegane had always held a grudge against the small man, whatever reasons they may be. “Hate him enough you’d rather die than be married to him, is that it? I imagine should you both survive this war he’ll be expecting you to spread your legs and breed a liter of Lannister’s. The whore monger that he is. Or has that already happened?” He stepped closer, daring her to meet his gaze and answer him without looking away. He searched for honesty behind her tully blue eyes. Each word spat only did more to reveal his insecurities revealing to Sansa more than he may have caught on. But she would not be belittled, nor let her former Lord husband be blamed for actions not committed.

This only aided to further prove Cleganes own actions within Sansa’s own eyes. His insecurities surfaced from the idea of her being used by another man, face growing angrier by the moment knowing how far out of reach she was in unattainable measure.

“Tyrion was kind to me.” She raised her voice in defense, sick of such accusations. Is that how he began to see her now? As some whore because she had been married to the infamous lustful imp? So he had seen her leave the great hall with Tyrion, was that it? Or did he think to expect Tyrion would instead show up in her quarters in the middle of the night and expect his rights by law?

No. Only one man had ever dared something that risky. And he was already here, standing before her in her room.

Sandor Clegane only mocked her. “Oh yes, _kind_. Charming and witty too, I bet. A real prize.”

“He has never touched me. Not once.” Just the idea of it brought a subtle blush to her cheeks, embarrassment flushing at the memory of her wedding night. How she had slowly undone the clasps, loathing the moment Lord Tyrion Lannister’s small stubby hands placed themselves upon her. She wanted to screw her eyes shut and black out the memory, pretending it never existed.

“You expect me to believe that?” He spoke forcefully, grabbing her arm and giving her a light shake. His hand, matted with rough callous and an iron-like grip felt warm wrapped around her silk covered flesh.

“You think me a liar?” She retorts, unflinching.

“Safe to assume, what with your life being surrounded by them.” The Hound snaps back. “No way of knowing who you are anymore.” Well, there was something they could both agree on. Sansa had changed in drastic ways, some for the better and others for the worst. To say the same could be said for the former Lannister dog was an easy bet to make as well. Time had passed and wars had come and gone. Battle pumping through their veins inescapably.

“Who I am anymore? What, like a _little bird?”_

The name made his face go a sort of pale.

“You’ve called me it before. Many times.” She stepped forward, Sandor Clegane taking a step back, the end of the bed frame hitting the back of his legs and forcing the large man to stumble on his backside. Sansa simply hovered over him, a feeling of empowerment washing over her from the shadow cast over the large man. “Or has that slipped your mind?”

The breath flew from her lips the moment her back hit the mattress, her mind whirling with adrenaline. A flash of silver crossed the room and the next thing she knew there was a blade poised at her throat, pressing down lightly enough so as not to draw blood, any form of movement meaning a cut. Her fur coat held tightly closed by hands came fumbling open, exposing the woman in just a night shift and nothing more. Heat flooded Sansa from head to toe at the exposure.  
Sandor Clegane seemed content with the roles reversed, her smaller frame trapped beneath his larger one. The man’s body produced a copious amount of heat, warming her with this little of contact. “Aye, I did. You’re just like one of those talking birds from the Summer Isles repeating everything it's told. Just like your Septa taught you.” The Hound pressed a little harder, his eyes boring into hers and his face so close Sansa thought that he had meant to kiss her. _The name was a form of endearment and insult after all_. “I came to take you for good this time, you daft bird. Somewhere far from here. I’m not making the same mistake twice and letting you stay.” But when he looked beyond her eyes and roamed over her body gathering enough data on their composure and positioning, a smug grin widened over his face before turning back to meet her stare. “Or might be I’ll take from you what I can get first.”


	13. The Ghost of You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post Season 7.
> 
> The army of the dead has breached The Wall, Jon is returning to Winterfell with the Dragon Queen and her army at their backs, and Cersei has declared war in the South. With Winterfell caught in the middle, Sansa must take action and seize each opportunity that could help to not only save her people, but herself as well. And with long forgotten memories coming back to haunt her, she's not sure if she's ready to face death just yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy is it getting hot in here or is it just me? ;)
> 
> From here on it's going to be M+....Not that it wasn't really before. :P It's GOT. That by itself is self explanatory enough for warning labels. 
> 
>  
> 
> Song Chapter:
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uCUpvTMis-Y

**SANDOR POV**

 

His hardened body pushed further into her, rough armor prodding into soft flesh. Was Sandor the very type of man he detestested all throughout his life? Was there a mirrored image of Gregor looking back at him within these young girls eyes that lay beneath him? But when looking past the mirror...Sansa’s eyes...They were a cloudy and fierce ocean, mimicking the storm that was brewing from the Princess of the North. The storm was coming, both knowing they were already lost at sea.  
And then she had done the most unexpected thing. Her voice, cold and deadly, iced words laced with a deadpan expression, looked him head on with no remorse and promptly slapped him right in the face. Sandor held his stare to the floor of the side of the bed, tasting the blood pool in the corner of his mouth, caught off guard in foolishly thinking she’d do nothing, unchanged since King’s Landing. It was ignorant to think when so much time had since passed.

Sandor deserved it, he knew. The blade in his palm moved from her neck to the floor, dropping carelessly with him, the steel hitting the stone floor. Sandor finally drew his gaze back to the woman still trapped beneath him. There was no returning from what he had done. There, just on her neck was produced a small line of blood, drizzling down lightly. The man felt ashamed, a promise broken. Sandor had vowed he would not hurt her, meaning it when it was said the first time. But then hadn’t he come here to do just that? Take her physically by force if she didn’t come with and steal her off in the dead of night like some mad Wildling once he was done ravaging her? _No_ , he thought better. Even a second time, Sandor would force himself to control his urges and prevent any form of sexual assault from happening. _But what if I can’t this time? What if I’m no better?_ The doubts suddenly began to linger, a lack of self control ensuing.  
“I know many things about you, Sandor Clegane,” Sansa finally spoke, pulling him from his stupor. For the first time Sandor is hearing his given name spoken from her lips, the sound of it on her tongue sending shivers down his spine both from satisfaction and discomfort from the emotions brought on by them. “But a raper is not one of them.” She finished with confidence, as if it was as simple as that and the conversation was over.

Sandor looked down at her, baffled. And then he began to laugh, softly at first, the sound growing louder and louder. The laughing was intended to mock her in order to prove a point, consciously aware that within minutes her statement would become false if Sandor didn’t remove himself from the premises soon. Her expression still did not change at his recognition however.  
On the cusp of losing his wits in making a decision of what to do, torn between morals and lust, Sandor’s eyes grew bewildered. “Is that what you think?” The words may have been threatening but somehow some bit of sanity still held on, pulling the man back to reality and reminding him that there would be no going back if he made this choice and should somehow live.  
And yet Sandor still knew what he wanted. He had always known. Sansa Stark was someone he would never in all of his life time. Not unless he took her by force.  
_Fuck the laws. Fuck the Gods. And fuck the royalty and the Night King and this entire goddamn war._ The only war that mattered was here in this room, up against the only other thing that terrified him besides fire and Gregor. What was right or wrong didn’t matter anymore. Death had a warrant out for him, Sandor reasoned. All the terrible acts enacted in the timespan of his life certainly warranted an end, putting the mad dog out of its misery for good once and for all. There were no happy endings for Sandor Clegane. Only left behind in the memories of others as the Hound. Time spent helping build a sept did no use to rid the reputation either, the folk still fearful of him, keeping their distance. After Sandor recovered enough from all the injuries he had hoped to find some place of solitude where one could start to build a new life and start anew, but it did nothing to stop the prevention of the outside world still swallowing everything whole in its path of chaos and destruction. There was no running in this life or the next. The world was cruel for all and everything within it.

The Stark girl was just as bad, instead naive to the world that encircled her outside of protective castle walls. He had envied her childish pigheadedness and hated it all the same time. She lived growing up taught certain beliefs that he as a child had once had, only to be crushed and mocked for believing in a fake and impossible future, toxic and likely to get you killed as it was in the real world. It was a life composed of stories and lore, all make believe, and an ignorant girl refusing to accept anything other than the lie so long as it contained some semblance of hope. Far away and muted from the truth of reality, Sansa Stark was safe behind the walls of the North once again. Had she become just as ignorant again, or had she learned the ways of life and the unfair hand it gave to those most undeserving?  
The thought dawned on him that Sandor may not get a chance to know, whether it be from Sansa never speaking to him again or if death should take them first. What would happen to her in the years after should they make it? Would she ever smile again, the same way she had the first time Sandor had ever laid eyes on her in Winterfell? The day King Robert’s party rode into Winterfell, the Northern Lord and his kin welcoming them warmly. Sandor remembered seeing only a cascade of tousled auburn hair outside his dogs helm, vibrant locks extending down the back of a young twelve year old girl who stood amidst her parents and siblings. To this day Sandor still recalled telling himself in his mind that not once had he ever seen a more pretty female in all of his life, overcome with infatuation with Sansa Stark ever since.  
But then she was to be betrothed to the Prince...

“You don’t know the things I’ve done,” Sandor snarled, leaning in closer with intimidation, Sansa still unwilling to flinch. His testing and goading did nothing to arouse a response from her, somehow. Scream at him, hit him, shove him off even. Sansa did none of it. She only looked back, staring deep into his eyes, a resistance to back down. This was not the same scared little girl from the Red Keep. It was a prideful wolf in the birds stead, biting the dog back. The sudden change was unsettling, Sandor unaccustomed to being the one eaten by another's gaze rather than the other way around. It was unpleasantly unsettling and arousing all the same, to hear such power in her words backed by confidence, even if the statement was meaning to say.

Sandor wanted nothing more than to break contact and to look away, to not allow anyone to see past The Hound, but he refused showing any weakness. Not in front of her or anyone else. And yet…  
Sandor tore his attention away anyways remembering the cut. The blood had dried, slipping only a few centimeters down her pale skin. It was nothing life threatening and would heal within a few days time.

“You have never raped anyone in your life. And you still cannot be one if I give myself to you willingly.”

Sandor’s head whipped back to her face so quickly that she couldn’t even get her next words out, silenced into submission. Sandor using all resolve to hold himself back at the submission. “Don’t,” he growled menacingly. “Don’t play play games with me. You don’t want this. You never would and you never will!” Secrets and insecurities began slipping out, intertwined with crass and vulgar words, Sandor past the point of caring any further. “Not even whores want it. They’ve faced away from me every time.” The free hand that held the dagger grabbed Sansa’s shoulder and gave her a quick, yet not ungentleful shake, dragging her face closer within inches of his. He hated liars, and that included himself. “If I fuck you, I’m going to do it good and proper, and I’m going to watch your face as I do it.”  
Seconds passed, Sandor thinking that she had given up, expecting him to take what he wanted and be done with it. But her face did not show redness from embarrassment nor did she try to hide it and look away. The expression they looked most to be was a look of sadness.  
Sansa’s hand then reached up from between them, Sandor thinking that she planned to slap him or start hammering on his chest in fright, calling him a monster over and over and screaming that he was the worst of them all.  
Instead her fingertips grazed his neck, moving upwards towards the hole where the left ear should have been, cupping and shaping her palm around his cheek and touching and holding the burned side of flesh there. It wasn’t until her thumb ran itself under his eye and swiped across the lid did he realize that he had been crying. For how long, Sandor wasn’t sure. The vibration from her palm told him he had been shaking as well.

“Sandor,” Sansa spoke softly, like a mother talking to her child. “I know you won’t hurt me.” She said, attempting to pull his face back down, the man moving his face further into her palmer, deeper into its warming embrace. When was the last time anyone had shown any form of comforting physical contact? It had been so long ago it was almost impossible to know if it ever even happened in the first place. It must have if it warranted the euphoric feeling, he figured. But the comfort did not stop the coming tide of wave after wave of emotion crashing through by anger.

“You can’t know that, Little Bird.” He choked, trying to prevent his voices stability from breaking and losing composure.

Sandor breathed in her scent, wondering if this moment was all just a dream he’d soon wake up from. The reality was that never in a thousand years would Sansa Stark give herself willingly. But did he dare ask why on her part the decision?

“I’m not one of your pretty knights or heroes and I’m not going to ride out of some goddamn song in the name of valor. I’m just like the rest of them. I’m a killer. I take satisfaction in cutting men down and watching them scream when I do it.” Sandor’s hand finds itself wrapping around her petite flesh and pulling her hand from his face, pinning it down to the bed above her head. Her flesh was warm and felt soothing to hold, mouth watering just thinking about how the rest of her must feel too. “And it’s no different with cunts and cocks. I pierce you, and you scream for me.”

The profane words he used should have turned her face as bright as an apple, but her look of sadness for him remained. He hated the idea that she could pity him. Hated it even more that she could now willingly choose to ignore him if she wanted without getting emotional over hurtful words directed towards her. Was pity the reason then? Give the dog a treat only once, never again to let it enjoy anything outside of the taste of plain garbage? That notion was just torture.

Sandor felt his patience wearing thin. “Now tell me why before I change my mind and make good on my threat.”

“You know why,” Sansa said in a state of calm composure, then hearing a lack of an answer asked, “You must know why? I had thought--”

“Stop playing riddles with me, damn you!” Sandor shouted, slamming his other hand onto the bed adjacent her head.“Tell me why! Say it!” First the cloak and now this? What kind of games had the girl been taught to play with men like this?

“I know you are filled with anger and pain. And you’ve never had a chance to grow up. You seek comfort and a love you haven’t known since you were a child.” It was then that Sansa had begun crying too, small tears rolling down her soft cheek as she went on.“But there is nothing to be ashamed of for wanting that.”

Hearing enough, Sandor made to stand but Sansa was quicker than him, her free hand hooking his neck just in time to pull him back down again. “You are kind, and gentle, and brave. You are the only man that I can trust to show me what it means to feel...” Sansa paused, seemingly unable to finish her words, finally looking away for the first time in embarrassment.

“Feel what?”

Sansa’s face turned beat red, the words spoken so softly Sandor almost thought he hadn’t heard them to begin with. “To feel loved. And pleasured. And cared for…” Sansa’s tears turned into raked sobs, her composure finally beginning to crumble. “I have never been given a choice in my life as far back as I can remember. Even now, my position in Winterfell isn’t by my choice. And if I live through this, I’ll have to remarry again eventually. And if he's anything like Ramsey was...” Sansa couldn’t finish her sentence, screwing her eyes tightly shut and bawling her hands into fists, the wrist in Sandors grip tensing, her sobs growing heavier despite the attempts to hold them back. Sansa’s breathing grew labored and she trembled beneath him. “I might as well be dead then.”

Sandor, having gone through war and seen enough men suffering from the disorder of post traumatic stress to consciously know the signs and symptoms, saw the same characters now displayed from Sansa.  
What had the bastard done to her exactly?

“I cannot promise you love…” She said almost timidly, looking up into his grey eyes and he feeling the storm slowly passing, his own only churning more out of control. Her lips then upturned into a crude, angry smile, and Sandor wasn’t sure if he wished to hear any more of the refusal towards him. “And you cannot make me love you. Because if I love you I’ll have one more reason to live. And you’ll die in some war, never to come home like most men.”

Wondering if he was out of his goddamn mind for giving up on asking questions now and to instead pursue them later, Sandor resolved himself to doing the only thing he knew he wanted most in this moment. To see her smile again. If allowing her this, giving her a choice all her own was what it took, well damn him for trying to prevent that. The warning should have been enough to scare her off and put her back in her senses should she still have any wits left about her. If she disregarded the warnings, it was by her own choosing.

Sandor's temper began simmering thankfully, the only thing else left to deal with being the flame of lust that could not be doused so easily. At any given moment now Sansa would reject him, yelling saying everything that was said was all a mistake and none of it was true or meant to be take seriously. “I’m not going to share you with the highborn's, or secondary houses, or peasants, or any of them. If I take you, it’s forever. Do you understand?”

Sansa seemed to have, for her angry frown changed into a smile through heavy tears, a small nod given in response. “Forever and never?”

Sandor had almost forgotten about the army of the dead in their tryst, but she had a point. None it matter now, though.

“Aye,” he agreed, dropping his head into the juncture between Sansa’s head and neck, his arm slithering behind her back to pull her closer to him in order to properly hold her flush in his arms for the first time since the Riot in King’s Landing. “You’re mine, Little Bird. Forever and never.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song didn't fit the chapter itself, but here is the music that inspired this fanfiction and the reasoning behind its name!
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=23s0yxabbXo


End file.
